UC-N 


WOLF'S-BANE 


BOOKS  BY  JOHN  COWPER  POWYS 

The  War  and  Culture,  1914 $  .60 

Visions  and  Revisions,  Essays,  1915     .    .    .    .     2.00 
Wood  and  Stone,  A  Romance,  1915     ....      1.50 

PUBLISHED  BY 

G.  ARNOLD    SHAW 
GRAND  CENTRAL  TERMINAL,          NEW  YORK 


WOLF'S-BANE 

RHYMES 


BY 


JOHN  COWPER  POWYS 


No,  no,  go  not  to  Letbe,  neither  twist 

Wolfs-bane,  tight-rooted,  /or  its  poisonous  wine — " 


G.  ARNOLD  SHAW 

NEW  YORK 

1916 


COPYRIGHT,    1916,    BY 
G.  ARNOLD  SHAW 


COPYRIGHT    IN    GREAT    BRITAIN   AND   COLONIES 


am 


AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 

TO 

MY  LEARNED  AND  CRITICAL  FRIEND 
LLEWELLYN  JONES 


35800  * 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

APOLOGIA      n 

WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 12 

PAST  AND  PRESENT 13 

To  ONE  WHO  SPOKE  OF  ETERNAL  THINGS 14 

REGRET 16 

PUT  OUT  THE  LIGHT 16 

OMENS  BY  THE  WAY 17 

THE  CLOCK      19 

ICE 20 

CENSORSHIP 21 

THE  LIVING  AND  THE  DEAD 22 

THE  ONE  THING  NEEDFUL 23 

THO'  LOVE  HAS  FLOWN 24 

DE  PROFUNDIS 25 

THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  MOON 26 

THEIR  KISSES  ON  MY  MOUTH 26 

PANEM  ET  CIRCENSES 27 

LOVE-IN-IDLENESS 28 

REVERSION 29 

THE  LAST  ILLUSION 30 

COMPENSATION 31 

THE  TRUTH? 32 

To  A  PERSON  TALKING  OF  "REAL  LIFE" 33 

DAWN 35 

THE  VOICE  OF  DEMOGORGON 36 

REMINISCENCE 37 

INITIATION 38 

BURIAL      39 

THE  LAST  SAINT 40 

AFFINITY 41 

THE  LAST  WORSHIPPER 42 

DE  EGYPTU 43 

INTERCEPTED 44 

THE  CLASSIC  TOUCH 45 

LOVE      47 

THE  ULTIMATE 48 


8  QONTENTS 


«,«;  PAGE 

AT  A  GRAVE    .  *.*  V  *.  7   !* 50 

ON  THE  DOWNS 52 

THE  POND-NEWT  —  A  PORTRAIT 54 

IN  A  ROMAN  GARDEN 55 

CORPUS,  CAMBRIDGE 57 

THE  OLD  STORY 58 

THE  RECRUIT 59 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WORM 60 

AFTER  READING  WILLIAM  BLAKE 62 

ALONE 62 

THE  NEW  MAGDALENE 63 

THE  OLD  SONG : 64 

FIRST  AND  LAST 65 

WORSHIP 66 

A  DANIEL  COME  TO  JUDGMENT 67 

THE  DEATH-BIRDS 68 

FINIS 69 

SEMELE 70 

NEPENTHE 70 

DIALOGUE 71 

SLEEP 72 

THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  MAD 73 

DUALITY 74 

IT  is  NOT  NICE 76 

PRAYER 77 

COME,  LET  IT  Go 78 

DILEMMA 79 

THE  WINDS  THAT  WEPT 80 

YOUR  PORPHYRIES,  YOUR  TAPESTRIES      81 

THE  ESCAPE 83 

RENAISSANCE 85 

DAFFODILS 86 

IN  A  HOTEL  WRITING-ROOM 88 

To  AN  IDEALISTIC  POET 89 

THE  UPLIFTER  —  THREE  SCENES 91 

KINGS 92 

THE  DREAM 93 

DEATH 94 

PRAYER 96 

THE  UNDER- WORLD •  .    .    .    .  97 

THE  IMMIGRANT      99 

THE  MESSENGERS 100 

THE  PUBLIC  GARDEN 101 

To  M.  C.  P 104 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

SONG  OF  THE  OLD  MEN 106 

THE  JOY  OF  LIVING 108 

THE  HOUR  BEFORE  DAWN  .    .    . no 

A  CERTAIN  EVENING in 

RESIGNATION 113 

THE  MYSTERY 114 

REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE 116 

THE  Music  OF  THE  SPHERES      117 

KNOWLEDGE 118 

OVER  THE  HILL 119 


WOLF'S-BANE 


APOLOGIA 

THESE  bitter  stammered  rhymes, 
Tuneless  so  many  times, 
And  always  rent  and  torn, 
What  have  they  they  can  plead 
At  the  bar  of  the  critic-breed, 

That  to  life  they  should  be  born? 

Nothing  but  this,  that  they, 
In  their  own  drifting  way, 

Express  the  soul  that  bred  Jem. 
And  it  is  something  if  verse, 
For  many  a  priest  does  worse, 

Takes  a  man  and  his  style  to  wed  'em. 

In  every  child  of  earth 

There  runs  thro'  his  head  from  birth 

A  broken  stammered  tune, 
The  fairy-tale  of  his  days; 
And  'tis  much,  if,  with  little  to  praise, 

He  can  mutter  this  to  the  moon. 

For  the  little  things  he  spied  at, 
And  the  little  things  he  cried  at, 

Take  a  far-flung  wistful  gleam, 
And  seem  as  they  drift  on  the  mood 
Of  his  verse,  however  crude, 

To  belong  to  the  infinite  stream. 


12  WHAT     MIGHT     HAVE      BEEN 


WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

AH,  poet  —  you,  who  sing 
"The  days  that  are  no  more" — 
There  is  a  bitterer  sting 
In  the  days  that  never  were. 

For  lying  alone  in  the  night, 

Hearing  the  wind  at  play, 
I  know  such  days  to  have  been  my  right. 

Yet  they  came  and  took  them  away. 

I  never  knew  them!    They  stole 

The  sorrow  out  of  my  sleep; 
The  crying  out  of  my  dreams. 

I  cannot  even  weep. 

They  came  and  took  them  —  they  stole 
The  longing  that  was  my  right, 

The  grief  that  was  my  child. 
They  left  me  alone  in  the  night. 

"Never  was"  has  a  sharper  sting 
Than  "No  more,"  as  roll  the  years; 

And  the  gods  take  everything 
When  they  take  away  our  tears. 


PAST     AND     PRESENT  13 


PAST  AND  PRESENT 

I'LL  never  forgive  you!"  I  said, 
As  among  the  Phloxes  we  went, 
Where  the  orchard-rails  begin; 
And  now  that  the  Phloxes  are  dead 
And  the  apples  gathered  in, 
My  anger  is  quite  spent. 

But  between  your  hands  and  me  — 
Hands  that  I  hated  so 
Because  they  were  like  a  girl's!  — 
Leagues  of  unfathomed  sea 
Under  the  cold  moon  flow, 
Sprinkled  with  wrecks,  not  pearls. 

And  "I'll  never  forgive"  has  turned 
To  "I'll  never  forget"  and  you, — 
Ah!    that's  the  sharpest  sting!  — 
While  the  too  soft  hands  I  spurned 
Are  now  my  only  clue, 
Have  forgotten  everything. 

And  over  the  Phloxes'  grave 
Grow  other,  alien  flowers, 
And  the  orchard  rails  are  gone. 
Life  will  not  stoop  to  save 
Even  such  tokens  as  ours, 
As  it  roars  and  eddies  on. 

With  wrecks  strewn,  not  with  pearls, 
Are  our  far-divided  sands, 


14     TO    ONE    WHO    SPOKE    OF    ETERNAL   THINGS 

As  the  salt  sea  holds  us  apart, 
Are  they  still  as  soft  as  a  girl's, 
Or  have  they  hardened,  your  hands, 
As  I  seek  to  harden  my  heart? 


TO  ONE  WHO  SPOKE  OF  ETERNAL 
THINGS 

HUSH!    for  the  shadow  of  a  flower 
Upon  a  sun-warmed  stone, 
Your  "Highest  Truth"  with  all  its  power 
I'd  willingly  disown. 

Hush!    for  a  glance  thro'  the  lattice  flung 

Upon  a  sleeping  brow, 
Your  "Thunder  of  the  Immortal  Tongue" 

I'd  lightly  disavow. 

The  eternal  law,  the  deep  life-stream, 

Why  should  I  worship  these? 
Better  the  briefest  human  dream 

Among  the  fading  trees! 

Better  the  frailest  human  touch 
When  the  harebells  cover  the  hill, 

Or  the  broken  memory  of  such 
When  the  heart  has  its  will! 

Better  the  toss  of  the  daffodil's  head 
When  the  swallow  dips  in  the  pool! 

Better  the  rain  on  the  crocus-bed 
That  keeps  the  twilight  cool! 


TO   ONE    WHO    SPOKE    OF    ETERNAL    THINGS      15 

Better  —  I  see  it  now!  —  that  look, 
Mixed  strangely  with  shells  and  sand, 

And  the  uncut  page  of  a  curious  book 
And  the  quiver  of  a  hand! 

The  little  things  —  the  little  things  — 

The  things  that  fade  and  die  — 
The  perfume  of  their  passing  brings 

More  than  Eternity. 


16  PUT     OUT     THE     LIGHT 


REGRET 

/GENTLY  you  whispered,  "you'll  forget;" 
VJT      And  I,  who  with  "Never!"     kissed  you, 
Know  that  my  bitterest  regret 
Is  not  that  I  have  missed  you. 

'Tis  that  a  thing  more  sweet,  more  rare 

Than  aught  in  life  I've  seen, 
Can  mingle  with  the  common  air 

And  be  as  't  had  not  been! 


PUT  OUT  THE  LIGHT 

PUT  out  the  light;  —  and  then 
Put  out  the  light!" 
O  loss  to  mortal  men 

Of  all  delight! 
You  who  were  so  sun-fair 
Your  beauty  warmed  the  air, 
You  who  were  so  care-free 
You  healed  all  misery, 
Must  cry  with  ghosts  upon  the  wind 
Or  be  in  frozen  earth  confined. 
The  fairest  things  are  the  briefest  things; 

And  the  sweetest  soonest  die; 
No  sign,  no  trace,  no  memory  clings 

To  earth  or  sea  or  sky. 


OMENS     BY     THE     WAY  17 


OMENS  BY  THE  WAY 

DEAR  God!    Our  pilgrimage 
Is  a  strange-scawled  page 
Of  script  concealed  by  script! 
Sweetness  beyond  belief 
Leaps  on  us  like  a  thief; 
And  when  the  joy  has  gone 
Ashes  we  feed  upon; 

Then  onward  are  we  whipped. 

Voices  out  of  thin  air  find  us, 
When  did  we  hear  them  before? 

Footsteps  follow  close  behind  us 
Along  the  empty  shore. 

Footsteps  of  whom? 

And  from  what  country  do  they  come? 

A  starved  and  wrinkled  tree 

Has  memories  for  me, 

Pulling  me  fathoms  deep 

Under  strange  seas  of  sleep. 

Life  whispers  "Memories  of  what?" 

The  soul  within  me  answers  not. 

Sweet  Christ!   our  wayfaring 
Is  an  unholy  thing. 

We  stumble  over  graves. 
We  open  sealed  doors. 
We  sink  thro'  broken  floors. 

We  walk  on  perilous  waves. 


l8  OMENS     BY     THE     WAY 

Just  now  within  a  crowd, 

Lovely,  but  like  a  ghost, 

One  face,  amid  a  host, 
Beckoned  me.     Like  a  cloud 
Of  fire  rose  Babylon: 
And  dreaming  I  walked  on. 

Flutes  in  the  air!    They  came 

With  February's  sun. 
Thoughts,  buried  under  mountains,  swift  as  flame 

To  meet  this  fluting  run! 


THECLOCK  19 


THE  CLOCK 

WHY  do  you  go  to  that  grand  hotel 
Of  iron  and  marble  built?" 
— "  I  do  not  know  —  I  cannot  tell  — 
Yet  something  in  me  could  answer  well 
If  it  would/*     And  I  blushed  with  guilt. 

"Try  to  say  it,"  she  said.     "Is't  the  gilded  roof, 

Or  the  bunches  of  roses  red, 
Or  the  airy  corridors,  fire-proof, 

Or  the  servants'  velvet  tread?" 

— "Yes,  these  —  but  something  more  than  these! 

Hush!    Did  you  hear  that  sound? 
The  corner-clock!     It  brings  release 

To  ghosts  of  underground. 

"No  other  House,  no  other  place, 

Chants  me  these  wistful  rhymes 
That  bring  first  love  and  a  long-lost  face 

And  London,  with  their  chimes." 


20  ICE 


ICE 

IIS  not  my  fault  that  I  am  cold 

Or  that  my  mind  affects 
Each  thought,  each  movement,  of  the  souls 

That  my  poor  heart  reflects. 
When  under  ice  the  river  rolls, 

Do  the  waves  ask  the  frost 
Why  with  strange  symbols  manifold 
Its  glassy  face  is  crossed? 

Enough,  if  skating  on  that  ice 

Which  is  my  heart,  O  friends, 
Chasing  the  shapes  that  come  not  twice, 

You  turn  ere  daylight  ends! 
There  is  a  place  —  avoid  it !  —  where 

That  slippery  mask's  worn  thin. 
A  depth  of  drowning  water's  there. 

'Twere  pity  to  slip  in! 


CENSORSHIP  21 


CENSORSHIP 

THE  twisted  hearts,  the  crumpled  brains, 
The  broken  spirits  of  us  all, 
How  could  they  tolerate  life's  pains 
If  the  quips  and  the  nods 
And  the  mocks  at  the  gods, 
And  the  wicked  smiles 
And  the  wanton  wiles, 
Which  make  things  even, 
Were  censored  on  earth  as  well  as  in  heaven? 

We  are  all  condemned,  as  the  deep  tide  rolls: 

A  prayer  or  a  kiss  — 

'Tis  hit  or  miss. 

The  goldenest  lover 

The  earth  must  cover 

Along  with  the  fool 

Who  holds  life  a  school 
For  hammering  noble  souls. 

Let  us  be  kind  to  one  another  then; 
And  remembering  we  are  men 

Of  one  stuff  spun, 
Make  of  our  miching-mallecho 
A  cowslip-ball  to  toss  and  throw 

At  the  moon  or  the  sun! 


22       THE     LIVING     AND     THE     DEAD 


THE  LIVING  AND  THE  DEAD 

THE  humming  sea  is  full  of  dirges 
Rung  and  tolled. 
The  drifting  sea  beneath  its  surges 

Doth  enfold 

Bones  and  skulls  that  once  made  sleep 
Flee  from  hearts  impassioned  deep; 
Flee  from  eyes  that  could  not  weep. 
They  have  lost  their  former  spell  — 
Seaweeds  cover  them  too  well. 

And  the  lovers  of  these  bones, 

Where  they  hear  not  the  sea's  dirges, 
Speak  in  quiet  patient  tones 

Of  what  lie  beneath  the  surges  — 
She  no  more,  they  say,  will  feel 
The  harsh  turning  of  life's  wheel. 
She  no  more  will  feel,  they  say, 
The  sharp  pinching  of  life's  play. 

But  the  poor  bones,  tossed  and  tangled, 
Hearing  those  sea-dirges  jangled, 
Mutter  sadly,  in  their  moving 
Tomb,  of  what  they've  lost. 
Ah !   they  moan  —  that  we  again 
Might  drive  sleep  away  from  men! 

Thus  the  tender  thoughts  of  lovers 
Whom  the  warm  sweet  flesh  still  covers 
Differ  from  the  thoughts  of  those 
Who  have  passed  into  repose! 


THE     ONE     THING     NEEDFUL       23 


THE  ONE  THING  NEEDFUL 

I  AM  for  you;    I  am  against  the  oppressor! 
Proud  and  glad  am  I  to  be  numbered  with  you. 
Yea,  my  heart  is  yours,  and  what  wit  is  in  me 
Strikes  in  your  service. 

0  ye  driven  armies  of  slaves  and  outcasts, 
Cursed  were  I  with  the  curse  of  Cain,  if  ever 

1  forgot  your  tears  in  the  halls  of  Egypt, 

Feasting  with  Pharaoh! 

Yet,  behold!    There's  something  beyond  and  over; 
Something  without  which,  tho'  we  rose  and  trampled 
All  the  tyrant  hordes  into  hell  and  under, 
Still  were  we  empty. 

Sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbals  were  we 
Though  with  meat  and  wine  and  with  kisses  sated, 
If  the  Clue  —  the  Signal  —  the  Burning  Candle, 
Passed  us  unheeded. 

Yea,     there's     something  —  something     beyond     and 

over  — 

Without  which,  tho'  in  hell,  like  sheep,  our  masters 
Bleat  their  overthrowing  and  our  uprising, 
Still  we  go  naked. 

Who  can  name  it?    Who  has  the  right  to  name  it? 
None,  ah  none!    And  yet  in  the  world's  confusions 
With  lips  pure,  hearts  purged,  to  refuse  to  seek  it 
Is  to  die  living. 


24  THO'     LOVE     HAS     FLOWN 


THO'  LOVE  HAS  FLOWN 

LET  the  wind  wail  on,  my  dear, 
And  the  branches  moan. 
Light  the  candles;    have  no  fear; 
Draw  the  curtains;    dry  your  tear; 
Tho'  love  has  flown. 

He  will  come  again,  my  child; 

He  will  come  back. 
Over  the  hill  and  out  of  the  wild, 
From  the  long,  long  road,  by  your  light  beguiled, 

He  will  come  back. 


DEPROFUNDIS  25 


DE  PROFUNDIS 

0  SAVIOUR  of  the  World,  who  by 
Thy  Cross  and  Passion  —  Still  that  tragic  cry 
Pierces  the  blanket  of  our  plight, 
And  stabs  a  scarlet  wound  into  our  night. 

O  Son  of  David,  hear  our  piteous  call! 
Have  mercy  on  us  all! 
For  our  loves  turn  to  dust, 
And  our  swords  turn  to  rust, 
And  our  days  run  out  like  sand. 

O  Christ,   if  you   never  lived  our  hearts  have  made 

you! 
O  Christ,  if  you  never  died  our  hearts  betrayed  you! 

O  Saviour  of  the  World, 

Save  us  and  help  us! 


26     THEIR     KISSES     ON     MY     MOUTH 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  MOON 

OUT  into  the  cool  clear  air 
Where  love,  like  music,  dies  behind  us! 
Out  of  the  torches'  flare, 
Where  lust  lacks  wings  ever  to  find  us! 

Out  into  regions  where 
Hushed  is  the  old  mad  tune;  — 

Out  into  the  cool  clear  air; 
To  the  other  side  of  the  moon! 


THEIR  KISSES  ON  MY  MOUTH 

THEIR  kisses  on  my  mouth,  sweetheart, 
Are  frozen  —  cold  and  few; 
And  I  come  back  to  you; 
Their  lovely  magic  waxeth  old; 
Their  cunning  is  a  tale  that's  told; 
My  soul  is  parched  with  drought,  sweetheart, 
And  I  come  back  to  you. 


PANEM     ET     CIRCENSES  27 


PANEM  ET  CIRCENSES 

THE  crumbs  of  bitter  comfort  fall; 
Our  throats  are  parched;    our  mouths  are 
dry; 

The  dead  leaves  drift  along  the  wall; 
"A  little  happiness!"    we  cry. 

"Not  much  —  not  long;    enough  to  drink 
Once  of  the  sweet  sun,  ere  we  go. 
Not  long  —  not  much;    enough  to  know 
Once  how  the  gods  live,  ere  we  sink." 

"Serve      Life"   —they     preach  —  "Your     pleasure's 

naught. 

Serve    Life    and    die."      Must   those,    who    never 
Asked  to  be  born,  be  balked  of  their  retort? 
"Life  is  our  enemy  forever!" 

Thus  have  the  generations  cried  - 
"O  Unknown,  let  us  feel  content 

We  had  our  jest  before  we  went  — 
We  were  revenged  before  we  died!" 


28  LOVE-IN-IDLENESS 


LOVE-IN-IDLENESS 

YOU  love  him  and  I  love  you; 
And,  since  my  heart  shows  it, 
You  can  never  love  me  true; 
All  creation  knows  it. 

I  love  you  and  you  love  him; 

He  loves  yet  another! 
So  we  human  midges  skim, 

Biting  each  the  other. 

If  some  Puck  could  just  let  fall, 

From  his  fairy  flower, 
That  mad  juice  upon  us  all  — 

What  a  heavenly  hour! 

You'd  love  me  as  I  love  you; 

She'd  love  him;    and  he 
Would  love  —  does  it  matter  who, 

So  it  left  us  free? 


REVERSION  29 


REVERSION 

YES  it  is  surely  true 
That  I  who  loved  with  you 
That  magic  Beardsley  book 
With  its  Sidonian  look 

And  those  androgynous  masks  that  smirk  and  grin, 
Seraphic  imps  of  sin; 
That  I  who  muttered  my  mystic  credo 
In  the  Cathedral  of  Toledo 
And  traced  the  arabesques  of  doom 
On  the  last  Caesar's  tomb, 
And  thro'  the  rose-parterres 
Caught  Babylonian  airs, 
And  'twixt  the  kneeling  mutes 
Heard  Carthaginian  flutes; 
Am  now  content  to  let  all  go 
And  plant  geraniums  in  a  row 
And  with  my  lady's  piano-tuner 
Wish  that  the  holidays  came  sooner! 


30  THE     LAST     ILLUSION 


THE   LAST  ILLUSION 
f 

WE  only  played  at  love; 
That's  not  the  link  between  us; 
Love's  ashes  nothing  prove; 
That's  how  the  world  has  seen  us. 

Under  the  cinders  cold 

Of  that  light-kindled  spark 
The  eternal  flame  has  rolled 

And  fused  us  in  the  dark. 

On  then  with  your  deadly  wit 

And  the  darts  of  your  glacial  eyes! 

Mock  love  and  slander  it 

Where  under  the  dust  it  lies! 

For  I,  I  can  bear  your  scorn 

As  I  follow  wandering  fires, 
Driven  like  all  men  born 

By  unredeemed  desires; 

And  you,  you  can  bear  my  mild 

Submission  to  your  taunts; 
My  pose  of  an  injured  child, 

Mixed  with  unseemly  vaunts. 

For  we  both  know  well,  —  though  it  stings, 
And  we'll  mock  at  it  to  the  last; 

That  under  these  casual  things 
Something  holds  us  fast. 


COMPENSATION  31 


COMPENSATION 

AFTER  all 
There  are  moments, 
Even  for  the  most  unhappy, 
When,  out  of  some  tiny  crevice, 
Some  small  overlooked  chink  in  the  great  Wine- Vat, 
The  good  liquor  spurts  forth 
Into  our  mouth. 

And  we  remember 

How  long  ago  the  rain-wet  celandines 

Pierced  us  with  memories, 

With  memories  of  things  deeper  than  sleep  or  death 

And  older  than  all  the  orbits  of  the  planets. 

Over  the  tossing  poplars, 

Over  the  misty  plough-lands, 

Over  the  dreamy  meadows, 

Those  memories  came; 

Nor  did  they  melt  to  nothing 

Even  when,  from  the  witch-girl's  window, 

The  lamp-light  streamed  across  the  night. 

And  we  remember 

How  from  a  long  straight  road  — 

Somewhere  —  no  matter  where  — 

While  at  our  feet  silver- weed  and  dandelion 

Laughed  out  of  the  hot  dust, 

Somewhere  —  no  matter  where  — 

We  heard  it;   we  knew  it; 

The  Sea!    The  Sea!    The  Sea! 


32  THETRUTH 


THE  TRUTH? 

GOME,  my  enemies,  my  friends, 
Let  us  drop  this  pose! 
Now  the  light's  out  the  play  ends 
And  the  door  must  close. 

Let  us  drop  our  masks  and  be 

Just  for  once  ourselves, 
Saints  and  Satyrs  shamelessly, 

Goblins,  Imps  and  Elves. 

You  love  him  and  I  love  you, 

Why  not  say  it  then? 
God  in  heaven!    let's  once  be  true 

To  what  makes  us  men! 

Christ  in  heaven!    let's  once  forego 

Caution  and  discretion! 
You  —  you  there  —  whom  I  hate  so, 

What  is  your  confession? 

Eh?     Is  that  the  truth?    Well,  I 

Feel  the  same;  —  so  we 
Stripped  of  the  eternal  lie 

Can  for  once  agree! 

You  —  you  there  —  my  one  delight, 

What  have  you  to  say? 
What?   Not  that!  —  Up  with  the  light! 

Back  to  our  old  play! 


TO    A    PERSON    TALKING    OF    "REAL    LIFE*'     33 


TO   A    PERSON   TALKING   OF    "REAL   LIFE" 

AND  so  you  really  hold- 
You  poor  incredible  ass!  — 
That  all  this  steel  and  gold 
And  all  this  roaring  mass, 

These  shops  —  these  streets  —  these  jostling  cars, 
Represent  life  —  beneath  the  stars? 

Nom  de  Dieu!    all  the  while 

These  bawling  bandits  strive 
With  brazen  fraud  and  guile 

To  keep  themselves  alive, 
The  eternal  gods  in  deep  contempt 
Frustrate  the  insolent  attempt. 

These  things  of  iron  and  brass 

These  manikins  of  clay  — 
You  poor  unmeasured  ass !  — 

Deem  you  life  flows  their  way? 
Mere  weight,  mere  noise,  mere  rampant  size, 
Are  nothing  to  the  Destinies! 

Deem  you  that  that  deep  tide, 

Which  flowed  thro'  Caesar's  veins, 
And  poured  from  Jesus'  side, 

Cares  for  their  withered  gains? 
Their  works,  like  writings  on  the  sands, 
Are  —  and  are  not;  —  as  it  commands. 

The  scurf  of  our  old  earth 

Has  bred  that  kind  before, 
Unconscious  of  their  birth, 

And  will  again;   the  shore 
Of  life  is  strewn  with  such; 


34     TO    A    PERSON    TALKING    OF    "REAL    LIFE 

But  the  deep  waters'  flow, 
Where  the  horizons  touch, 

And  the  vast  sea-winds  blow, 
Knows  nothing  of  them  —  Ass! 

Life  and  Reality 
Are  high  evasive  things 
That  come  on  eagles'  wings. 
All  else  is  mud  and  dust  and  farce 

And  sheer  nonentity. 

Go  —  find  a  girl  —  and  see! 


DAWN  35 


DAWN 

BLOW  out  the  candles,  my  little  one, 
Lest  more  moths  burn  themselves; 
The  moon  must  soon  give  place  to  the  sun; 
And  our  watch  by  the  dead  be  over  and  done; 
O  I  am  cold,  —  cold! 

Out  of  the  marshes  the  wild-geese  rise 
And  float  away  on  the  misty  skies; 
And  the  ash-tree  leaves  on  the  pale  grass  shiver 
To  feel  the  dawn  come  up  from  the  river. 
O  I  am  cold,  —  cold ! 

Fetch  sticks  for  the  fire,  my  little  son; 

We  know  of  what  wood  those  are; 
And  who  gathered  them  for  us  one  by  one 

As  far  he  went,  —  how  far ! 
Never  again,  son,  never  again! 
Why  does  the  dawn  tap  on  the  pane 
Like  a  traveller  sick  and  old? 

O  that  this  night  might  have  lasted  on!  — 

Listen!     Is  that  their  feet?  - 
With  you  and  me,  my  little  son, 

And  him  there,  under  the  sheet; 
Lasted  on  and  on  and  on! 
O  I  am  cold,  —  cold. 


36      THE     VOICE     OF     DEMOGORGON 


THE    VOICE   OF    DEMOGORGON 

PALSIED  and  fevered  and  blind, 
Driven  by  madnesses  strange, 
Aching  and  loathing  it  all, 
In  our  planetary  hospital, 

Day  and  night  we  cry  for  a  change. 

And  the  wind-tossed  woods  and  the  wild 
Waters  that  wash  our  shores, 

Unappeased,  unreconciled, 
Cry  also  without  a  pause. 

And  sometimes,  between  the  souls 
Of  our  desperate  mad-house  men 

In  the  hospital  of  the  world 
And  these,  there  strangely  rolls 
A  tremor  of  mutual  rage; 

And  a  mutual  curse  is  hurled 

At  the  forehead  of  God;  and  then 

Silence. 

And,  in  the  silence,  a  breath  — 

Not  of  man,  nor  of  God,  nor  of  these, 
Nor  of  birth,  nor  of  life,  nor  of  death, 

Nor  of  madness,  nor  yet  disease,  — 
A  strange  weird  voice  from  the  deep 

That  opens  below  all  depth;  — 
"Lo!  such  are  the  dreams  of  sleep. 

Ye  will  wake  one  day!"  it  saith. 


REMINISCENCE  37 


REMINISCENCE 

BENEATH  the  crumbling  cliff  we  ate  our  meal. 
The  grass  was  dry  with  sun. 
Vague  breaths  of  April  stirred.     We  did  not  feel 
How  nearly  all  was  done. 

All  done,  all  over,  finished  with,  closed  up  — 

A  grave,  securely  sealed! 
The  dome  of  heaven,  deep-hollowed  like  a  cup, 

Nothing  of  this  revealed. 

O  you  that  long  ago,  that  long  ago 

I  loved,  what  forms  are  they 
Gliding  so  dumb  where  the  blue  corn-flowers  grow 

And  the  horned  poppies  sway? 

Why    hang   their    empty    hands?     Why    droop   their 
heads? 

Why  on  their  necks  sits  fate? 
So  look  the  lovers  who  did  make  their  beds 

When  destiny  cried  "Wait!" 


38  INITIATION 


INITIATION 

ONLY  those  whom  the  glacier-spears 
Pierce  as  they  walk, 
On  the  scoriae  heights  where  the  ultimate  Fears 

Nakedly  stalk, 
Can  taste  the  quivering  cup  of  the  dawn 

Where  the  cowslips  grow 
And  the  starlings  flying  over  the  lawn 
Their  shadows  throw. 

These  find  in  that  enchanted  hour 
The  lilac-tinted  cuckoo-flower. 
These  know  in  that  anointed  shrine 
The  rain-washed  blue-bell's  scent  divine. 

Only  those  who  have  harrowed  Hell 

Can  read  the  runes  of  a  sea-tossed  shell. 

Only  those  who  have  challenged  God 

Can  hear  the  worms  whisper  beneath  the  sod. 


BURIAL  39 


BURIAL 

CARRYING  tapers  in  soft  white  hands, 
Whose  thin  flames  blow,  by  the  night  winds 

shaken, 
Troop  the  maidens  along  the  sands, 

Where  he  lies  dead  whom  the  sea  has  taken. 

Every  law  has  he  trampled  on; 

Every  altar  has  he  defamed; 
Outcast,  Pariah,  cursed  one, 

By  his  own  kindred  shamed. 

Was  it  the  sea-gulls  whispering  the  girls 

How  their  lover  lay  stiff  and  stark 
That  made  them  slip  from  their  wreathed  pearls 

And  carry  their  tapers  thro'  the  dark? 

Cold  his  lips  as  the  wind-tossed  spray; 

Cold  his  mouth  as  the  drifting  foam; 
But  the  candle-bearers  kneel  and  pray 

Ere  they  carry  him  home. 

Two  at  his  head  and  two  at  his  feet, 

And  two  where  hang  his  hands, 
And  they  chant  the  Church's  dirge  complete 

As  they  carry  him  over  the  sands: 

As  they  carry  him  slow  to  the  holy  place 

Which  living  he  had  disdained, 
As  they  lay  him  low  in  the  tomb  of  his  race 

Which  in  life  he  had  profaned. 

When  tomorrow's  sun  shines  on  the  town 

The  people  will  curse  the  dead; 
But  his  victims'  tears  will  trickle  down 

On  the  Antichrist's  last  bed. 


40  THE     LAST     SAINT 


THE  LAST  SAINT 

WITH  vesture  torn  and  air  forlorn 
He  shuffles  on  his  quest. 
His  limbs  are  old;    his  heart  is  cold. 
By  night  he  gets  no  rest. 

With  mock  and  sneer  the  people  jeer; 

Hands  wave  from  windows  dim; 
With  brutal  vaunts  and  obscene  taunts 

The  crowd  make  sport  of  him. 

Wild  thro'  his  brain  the  ancient  strain 

Throbs  like  a  broken  chord  - 
"Until  ye  die  hold  charity 

More  potent  than  the  sword!" 

The  old  men  grin  to  see  how  thin 

He  is,  and  like  to  droop. 
The  madmen  greet  his  staggering  feet, 

And  imitate  his  stoop. 

Amid  these  harms  the  babes  in  arms 

Alone  do  not  deride; 
With  large  sweet  eyes  and  little  cries 

They  call  him  to  their  side. 

They  weep  and  crow;  they  laugh  and  throw 

Themselves  upon  his  breast. 
His  dim  eyes  shine;  "The  Babe  divine 

Still  justifies  my  quest." 


AFFINITY  41 


AFFINITY 

YOU  are  not  made  for  me. 
Out  of  the  burning  sun 
Where  he  sank  into  the  sea 
They  moulded  your  glowing  breast. 

Circe!    What  have  I  done 
That  you  should  trouble  my  rest? 
You  are  not  made  for  me. 

I  was  not  made  for  you. 
Long  since,  in  the  marsh-lands  old, 

Where  the  wailing  curlew  flew, 
And  the  wind  talked  to  the  ghouls, 
And  the  moon  lay  drowned  in  the  pools, 
My  heart  was  frozen  with  cold. 

I  was  not  made  for  you. 

Was  it  drunk  with  mischief  the  high, 

Immortal,  opposeless  Will, 
Which  ruled  that  you  and  I 

Should  the  same  fate  fulfil? 
"Marry  the  fire  to  the  frost, 

And  see  what  the  atoms  will  do!" 
Is  that  how  the  dice  were  tossed 

That  were  shaken  for  me  and  you? 


42  THE     LAST     WORSHIPPER 


THE  LAST  WORSHIPPER 

BROKEN  and  shattered 
Lie  on  the  stones 
The  golden  censers, 
That  once  scattered 
Perfume  and  prayer; 
And  unbeholden, 

Save  of  us  only, 
The  high  gods  lonely 
Mount  their  sad  thrones. 

And  I  too,  beneath  my  breath, 

Blaspheme  and  profane  the  place 
With  mutterings  lewd  of  death — 

But  your  illumined  face, 
Strained  by  the  weeping  of  sacrifice, 
And  lit  by  the  candles  of  paradise, 
Gleams  like  a  silver  cup 
To  those  sad  ones  offered  up; 
And  as  long  you  yield  them  that  visible  cry 
The  dying  gods  cannot  wholly  die. 


DEEGYPTU  43 


DE  EGYPTU 

TT  THERE  the  wet  bank  shines 
W        With  the  celandines, 
And  the  marigolds  mock  the  moon, 

Where  the  violets  tender 

Their  deep  hearts  render 
To  the  blackbirds'  wistful  tune, 

Where  the  woolly  sheep 

In  their  hurdles  sleep 
And  the  rooks  caw  from  the  trees, 

I  must  go;    for  the  end 

Is  at  hand,  my  friend, 
And  my  heart  is  sick  for  these. 

I  must  go;    for  the  end 

Is  near,  my  friend; 
We  have  lived.     Let  loose  my  hand! 

I  can  get  no  ease 

In  my  death,  Felise, 
If  I  die  not  in  my  own  land. 


44  INTERCEPTED 


INTERCEPTED 

SELF-CONSCIOUSLY  you  leer 
From  the  livid  swamp  of  your  eyes; 
And  my  last  hopes  disappear; 
For  so  unctuously  they  wink 
Over  your  plump  cheek's  brink 
That  I  know  you  have  won  the  prize. 

Anoint  her  with  ambergris! 

Bind  her  with  lilies  fast! 
She  is  not  the  first  —  nor  is 

She  likely  to  be  the  last. 

And  you?    Listen!    There  is  hate 

Whose  loathing  shudders  so, 

It  cannot  strike  a  blow. 
It  is  dazed  by  its  own  weight. 

Mad?    Of  course  I  am  mad. 
I  have  heard  her  cry  to  the  sun. 

But  I  hate  you  so  much,  that  I'm  glad 

Do  you  hear?  —  I  am  glad 
You  have  done  what  you  have  done! 


THE     CLASSIC     TOUCH  45 


THE  CLASSIC  TOUCH 

THEY  are  the  little  things 
That  strike  our  pulses  dumb; 
By-issues  —  nothings  —  light  moth-wings, 
Gone  almost  ere  they  come. 

Caught  in  a  crowded  town, 
My  nerves  laid  quivering-bare, 

To  the  floor  of  hell  my  soul  sank  down 
And  howled  its  protest  there. 

Bar-windows,  Burlesque-signs, 

Raw  hideousness  displayed, 
And  in  unending  lines 

The  people  ebbed  and  swayed. 

Foul  refuse  tinged  the  snow; 

Its  taste  was  in  my  mouth. 
Discordant  trolleys  row  on  row 

Went  East,  West,  North  and  South. 

Sudden  some  blessed  chance  — 
O  chance  bringing  gifts  to  all!  — 

Led  me  to  cast  a  glance 
On  a  patch  of  ancient  wall. 

And  there  an  indecent  sketch 

Limned  by  some  laughing  boy  — 

O  lovely  and  obscene  wretch!  — 
Swept  from  me  all  annoy. 


46  THE     CLASSIC     TOUCH 

And  the  hideous  iron  place 

With  its  monstrous  crowds  and  cars 

Was  whirled  into  outer  space 
And  diffused  among  the  stars. 

And  alone  by  the  fire  with  you 

I  sat  and  read  Rabelais  — 
Rue  des  Beaux  Arts,  mon  loup !  — 

And  my  soul  was  once  more  gay. 

And  the  old  great  shades  returned, 

And  the  large  sweet  thoughts  flowed  free, 

And  my  heart  within  me  burned, 
And  that  town  was  nothing  to  me! 


LOVE  47 


LOVE 

I  LOVE  not  as  you  can  love," 
I  said,  as  we  walked  thro'  the  wheat, 
On  a  day  long  dead; 
And  a  shadow  of  trouble  stole 
Over  his  wanton  brow. 
God  help  us!     I  see  it  now. 
To  the  darling  of  my  soul 
Those  words  I  said. 

And  that  wheat  long  ago  is  cut, 
Winnowed  and  ground  and  eaten; 

And  I  sit  by  the  side  of  a  slut 
Broken  by  life  and  beaten. 

'I  love  not  as  you  love,  sweet;" 
She  says;   and  she  little  guesses 

How  I  walk  again  thro*  the  wheat, 
And  whom  my  soul  caresses! 


48  THE     ULTIMATE 


THE  ULTIMATE 

WHEN  the  head  of  a  man  lies  under  the  sod, 
And,  like  little  decrepit  mice, 
The  deepest  thoughts  of  his  brain  creep  out, 
They  have  nothing  to  do  with  God. 
As  a  rule  they're  not  even  pure  or  nice. 
Shall  we  see,  in  one  case,  what  they're  about? 

Sit  down  on  this  sun- warmed  stone; 
And  take  in  your  hand  this  thing  — 
The  skull  of  a  man!     Do  you  feel 
How  they  slipped  out  one  by  one, 
His  curious  thoughts?    A  spell  can  bring 
Them  back  to  the  place  where  I  kneel. 

One  is  about  the  root  of  a  tree 

And  a  Valentine  buried  there; 

One  is  about  a  crooked  cross; 

A  number  —  ending  in  nought  and  three  — 

Comes  next;   then  a  half-penny's  loss 

In  the  streets  of  Rome;   then  a  coil  of  yellow  hair. 

A  honey-pot  in  a  tea-house,  near 
To  the  Penseur  of  the  Pantheon; 
A  table  rapped  by  spooks,  or  those 
Who  sat  at  it;   a  passing  tear 
At  Fontainebleau  for  Napoleon; 
And  so  the  list  might  close. 

Or  it  might  go  on  to  other  matters 
Still  stranger,  —  to  geraniums  blowing 
On  sea-side  walls;  —  to  ragged  shoes 


THEULTIMATE  49 

Laid  carelessly  by  skirts  in  tatters; 

To  ashes  in  a  broken  furnace  glowing; 

To  drops  that  from  a  squeezed  Pomegranate  ooze. 

Enough!    Put  the  skull  back  beneath  the  sod, 
And  let  the  earth  fall  on  it  —  It  is  over  — 
A  human  life!  —  and  all  his  thoughts  that  were 
Not  very  wise,  not  much  concerned  with  God, 
But  big  enough  the  whole  round  earth  to  cover, 
Like  mice  have  scuttled  back  into  the  air. 


50  ATAGRAVE 


GRAVE 


LEAVE  the  roses;   pluck  the  rue; 
Scatter  ashes  from  the  urn; 
To  the  cypress  and  the  yew 
Let  the  weeping  watchers  turn. 

For  Imagination's  dead, 

And  her  body,  strewn  with  balm, 
Lieth  lovely  in  its  bed, 

Safe  from  any  further  harm. 

Deep  they  drink,  the  rabble-rout, 

Of  reality's  dull  lees. 
"Give  us  life  and  truth!"    they  shout; 

"Give  us  freedom;    give  us  ease!" 

And  she  lieth  in  her  place, 

Fair  and  terrible  and  cold, 
Graved  upon  her  marble  face 

All  the  lines  of  sorrow  old. 

And  reality  and  truth  — 

Hideous  monsters  —  howl  and  rage, 
Lapping  up  the  sweat  of  youth, 

Draining  down  the  tears  of  age. 

Fierce  about  her  flames  the  sword; 

Rudely  round  her  rolls  the  dance; 
These  may  never  speak  the  word 

That  will  rouse  her  from  her  trance. 


ATAGRAVE  51 

Ah!   until  he  comes,  her  own, 

With  the  starlight  on  his  brow 
And  the  world-forgetting  tone 

Which  alone  the  immortals  know, 

Wrapped  in  linen-bands  she'll  keep 

Cold,  unmoved,  her  silent  scorn, 
Waiting  in  disdainful  sleep 

The  immeasurable  dawn. 


52  ONTHEDOWNS 


ON  THE  DOWNS 

SQUEEZE  out  the  cowslip-wine  and  let  me  drink 
Deep  of  the  hush  that  lieth  on  the  hills! 
Let  all  the  murmurs  of  the  valley  sink 

Far  down,  far  distant,  like  a  cup  that  spills 
Its  sweetness  on  a  drowsy-mossed  lawn 
Smelling  of  twilight  as  the  rooks  sail  by 
And  the  last  twitterings  of  the  sparrows  cease  — 
With  nought  above  me  but  Orion's  horn, 
Calling  thro'  space  to  Perseus,  let  me  lie. 
Silence;  —  a  plover's  scream,  —  the  world's  release. 

Nothing  about  me  but  the  close-cropp'd  grass 

And    mushroom-rings    and    dew-ponds    high    and 

lonely 
In  a  half-dream  I  let  my  fancies  pass 

Like  ripples  on  a  lake,  and  dally  only 
With  those  that  seem  in  league  with  careless  sleep; 
Such  as  the  thought  of  caverns  floored  with  sand 
Thro'  which  the  gurgling  tide  ebbs,  lifting  slow 
And  dropping  the  cold  weed,  and  bearing  deep 
Its  drift  of  shells  and  shingle  far  from  land, 
Far  out  to  sea,  where  the  great  steamers  go  — 

Such  as  the  falling,  in  a  moonlit  night, 

Of  leafy  shadows  on  an  empty  way 
Fringed  with  tall-waving  grass  and  parsley  white 

Which  not  a  single  foot  has  stirred  that  day; 
Such  as  the  stillness  of  a  roofless  shed 
Rising  amid  the  reeds  of  a  vast  plain 
Where  thro'  the  willow-tops  the  night-winds  hum 
And  the  old  sorrow  in  a  lover's  head 


ONTHEDOWNS  53 

Listens  all  night  long  to  the  sobbing  rain, 
Listens  and  weeps,  and  dreams  that  she  has  come. 

Squeeze  out  the  cowslip- wine,  O  fairy  hands! 

Long,  long  ago  I  tasted  such  a  cup, 
And  weary  now  of  foreign  loves  and  lands 

I  kiss  the  arms  that  once  more  lift  it  up, 
The  shadowy  arms  full  of  mysterious  sleep. 
The  wheel  of  my  life's  fever  comes  at  last 
Full  circle  —  I  am  tired  —  let  me  rest. 
Let  this  wine  lull  the  pulses  that  must  keep 
Beating  reiterations  of  the  past  — 
Too  many  lives  I've  lived  —  The  end  is  best. 

The    mushroom-rings    grow    dark  —  The    dew-ponds 
fade. 

Thro*  the  hushed  night  Orion  blows  his  horn. 
The  brooding  Downs  a  solemn  couch  have  made, 

Where  I  can  sleep  away  all  earthly  scorn, 
And  all  the  ache  of  life,  and  all  the  throb 
Of  all  its  engines.     Somewhere  from  the  hills 
Comes  like  a  human  voice  the  peewit's  cry; 
Silence  —  the  world's  release;    a  whimpering  sob 
From  distant  sheep-folds;  —  and  a  lost  face  fills 
My  landscape;  —  she  is  with  me;  —  I  can  die. 


54       THE     POND-NEWT — A     PORTRAIT 


THE  POND-NEWT  — A  PORTRAIT 

SILKY  and  soft  and  lewd, 
Leering  at  good  and  ill, 
Nature  in  him  has  spewed 
A  serpent  we  cannot  kill. 

Covering  with  glittering  slime 
The  flowers  that  whet  his  wit, 

He  ravishes  Heaven  for  a  rhyme 
And  harrows  Hell  for  a  hit. 

He  would  lose  his  soul  to  thrust 

A  deep  and  poisonous  dart, 
Not  exactly  for  lust, 

Into  his  darling's  heart. 

And  yet  he  disarms  our  spleen  — 
His  eyes  are  hunted  and  wild. 

In  the  head  of  the  toad  a  jewel  is  seen. 
He  is  a  wounded  child. 


IN     A     ROMAN     GARDEN  55 


IN  A  ROMAN  GARDEN 

THE  pomegranates  bloom  red 
Above  my  head; 
And  a  marble  god  impassively 
From  the  yellow  roses  watches  me. 
The  calm  of  his  face,  like  music,  brings 
A  thousand  Summers,  —  a  thousand  Springs. 
My  husband  —  kind  soul!  —  is  out  of  sight; 
Visiting  the  Hermaphrodite. 

The  black  and  red  book  I  carry 

Has  pages  upon  this  place  — 
Did  the  man  who  wrote  it  marry, 

And  hate  his  wife's  mute  face? 

Three  splashing  fountains  call 

To  the  yellow  roses  and  fling 
Spray;    but  no  heed  at  all 

Takes  he,  that  marble  thing. 

Strange!    Till  this  hushed  noon-day 

Great  Rome  herself  has  been 
Like  the  drops  of  the  fountains'  play 

Unheeded  and  unseen. 

But  the  calm  of  that  classic  head! 

It  renounces.      It  lets  all  go. 
But  over  its  brow  is  shed 

A  light  few  mortals  know. 

And  into  my  spirit  streams 
A  strange  unwonted  stir, 


56  IN     A     ROMAN     GARDEN 

While  the  red  Pomegranate  dreams 
And  the  fountains  play  to  her. 

0  lonely  and  classic  head, 

I  too  can  renounce  and  wait, 
While  the  Pomegranates  bloom  red 
At  Love's  forsaken  gate! 

What  matter  if  with  that  girl 

Whose  eyes  are  like  stars  of  night, 

And  her  throat  like  a  column  of  pearl, 
He  visits  Hermaphrodite? 

1  also,  the  wife  foredone, 
Foredoomed,  as  a  tale  that  is  told, 

Can  sit  serene  in  the  sun 
Inspired  by  wisdom  old. 

For  the  clue  to  these  marble  things 
Is  the  clue  to  our  human  pain;  — 

Renounce;  and  a  thousand  Springs 
Burst  into  bloom  again. 


CORPUS,      CAMBRIDGE  57 


CORPUS,  CAMBRIDGE 

NOTHING  can  I  recall, 
O  Alma  Mater,  of  thee 
Save  a  crumbling  ivied  wall 
And  a  world  of  obliquity. 

Nothing  but  shades  discreet, 

Politic,  glib  of  tongue, 
Pirouetting  on  tip-toe  feet 

To  where  the  Mass  is  sung:  — 

The  Mass,  or  whatever  most 

In  Evangelic  places 
Prefers  the  Holy  Ghost 

To  flamboyant  grimaces:  — 

Nothing:    and  yet  I  lie! 

Across  my  memory  flame, 
Like  blood-drops  on  ivory, 

The  syllables  of  a  name. 

Like  a  red  wound  in  the  breast 

Of  a  god,  like  a  maiden's  cry 

For  her  ravished  virginity, 

Like  a  torch  that  burneth  a  city, 

Comes  to  me  over  the  years, 

A  wraith  of  splendour  and  tears. 

Christopher  Marlowe  —  shrive  him,  God! 

Walked  and  blasphemed  on  Corpus  sod. 


58  THEOLDSTORY 


THE  OLD  STORY 

OF  the  bitter  shafts  of  love 
That  poison  human  veins 
Lost  Opportunity 

Excites  the  cruellest  pains. 

"An  hour  too  late"   —and  all 

We  touch  and  see 
Turns  to  a  frozen  wall 

Of  misery! 

Like  drops  of  burning  rain 

That  ghastly  "what  might  have  been" 
Torments  our  wretched  brain 

With  its  litany  obscene. 

And  our  heart  gives  one  wild  cry 
Against  the  unchanging  law:  — 

"Let  eternity  go  by, 

"And  the  past  be  as  before! 

"Welcome  the  uttermost  harms 
"That  hell  holds  in  its  power, 

"So  I  clasp  her  once  in  my  arms 
"As  I  might  have  —  in  that  hour!" 


THERECRUIT  59 


THE  RECRUIT 

GARTER  for  Mister  Manley, 
He  worked  at  Wfflum's  Mill 
And  up  by  barton  and  down  by  mead 
He  sang  to  the  maidens  upon  his  reed. 
"Apples  be  ripe"  he  sang  to  them; 
"And  nuts  be  brown"  they  answered  him. 

From  England  banished  far 

In  the  madness  of  the  war, 

With  a  bullet  thro'  his  throat 

He  gasped  the  ancient  note; 

His  comrades  laughed  at  the  words  he  sang; 

But  the  dying  men  died  without  a  pang. 

"Apples  be  ripe"  he  sang  to  them; 

"And  nuts  be  brown"  they  answered  him. 

In  the  hospital  the  nuns 

As  his  own  end  drew  near 
Asked  him  what  message  he  wished  to  send 

To  those  he  held  most  dear. 
Sweetly  they  spoke  to  him  of  Christ 
Whose  blood  for  all  the  world  sufficed. 

But  his  thoughts  were  at  Willum's  Mill 

Along  with  Mister  Manley. 
Up  by  barton  and  down  by  mead 
Someone  was  playing  upon  his  reed. 
"Apples  be  ripe"  sang  the  holy  nuns; 
"And  nuts  be  brown"  answered  the  guns. 


60        THE     VOICE     OF     THE     WORM 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE   WORM 

THE   Prophets  and  the  Saints   forever   keep 
Crying  their  cry  of,   "Live!     Have  Courage! 
Live! 
The  cisterns  of  our  misery  flow  deep: 

Deeper  flows  joy  —  Have    Faith!     Have  Courage! 
Live!" 

I  only,  I,  the  worm  who  drank  the  blood 

Of  Satan  when  he  fell, 
Have  from  eternity  this  cry  withstood, 

Out  of  the  pit  of  hell. 

Courage?    What  is  it  but  the  old  illusion 

Forged  by  the  sly  Life-stream 
To  lure  its  creatures  on  to  new  confusion 

From  world-dream  to  world-dream. 

I,  the  worm  coiled  in  Demogorgon's  brain, 

I,  who  saw  Lucifer 
Hurled  from  the  highest  heaven,  alone  remain 

Indifferent  to  this  stir. 

Not  noble,  not  heroic,  only  fools, 

Are  they  who  "accept  life" 
With  gallant  catchwords  borrowed  from  the  schools 

Of  philosophic  strife. 

Too  many  gods  have  I  seen  born  and  die. 

Hold   ye  your  peace  —  This   "courage"   will   pass 

too. 
O  latest  Raiment  of  the  eternal  Lie, 

Snug  'mid  your  rags  I  yet  shall  spit  at  you! 


THE     VOICE     OF     THE     WORM        6l 

I,  who  saw  fall  from  heaven  the  Morning's  Son 

Whom  his  own  strength  sufficed, 
I,  who  lie  coiled  forever  on  the  Stone 

Where  they  entombed  the  Christ, 

Am  not  to  be  deceived  if,  —  after  Pride 

And  Love,  —  men  credence  give 
To  the  Illusion  that  puts  both  aside; 

And  cries,  "Have  Courage!    Live!" 


62  ALONE 


AFTER  READING  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

THOSE  who  cut  a  worm  in  twain 
With  Jesus'  blood  the  roadway  stain. 
Those  who  aside  from  the  harlot  turn 
Throw  Jesus'  heart  in  the  flame  to  burn. 
He  who  kills  love  in  a  woman's  bed 
Drives  the  thorns  into  Jesus'  head. 
He  who  flings  poison  on  love  from  pride 
Thrusts  the  spear  into  Jesus'  side. 


ALONE 

ALONE! 
That  is  the  broken  cry 
Of  the  soul  whose  bitter  lot 
Even  Christ  shareth  not. 
And  none  shareth  it,  —  none. 

None  shareth  it,  —  none! 

A  veil  falls  down  and  hides  us. 

Our  lovers  search  and  weep. 
More  than  the  world  divides  us. 

We  only  met  in  sleep. 
Alone! 


THE     NEW     MAGDALENE  63 


THE  NEW  MAGDALENE 

SHE  turns  her  with  sick  heart 
From  the  crowd  with  the  burning  eyes. 
She  flees  to  the  woods  apart 

Where  the  old  world's  shadow  lies. 

And  there  in  the  leafy  gloom, 

With  her  white  face  hid  in  her  hair, 

She  moans  the  unpitied  doom 
Of  the  flesh  that's  born  too  fair. 

Softly  with  amorous  tread 

From  the  dark  doth  a  Satyr  creep 

And  standing  close  to  her  head 
Watches  the  wanton  weep. 

Like  the  mask  of  a  thousand  years 

The  lust  in  him  drops  away, 
And  big  immortal  tears 

Make  a  grave  for  it  in  the  clay. 

And  gently  on  bended  knees 

He  worships  the  wanton  there, 
Pouring  old  heathen  litanies 

Into  her  drooping  hair. 

And  the  heart  of  the  old  world  then 

Flings  forth  its  ancient  balm, 
And  the  burning  eyes  of  men 

Can  work  her  no  more  harm. 


64  THEOLDSONG 


THE  OLD  SONG 

LET  the  dead  go  wed  the  dead. 
Let  the  shroud  go  weave  the  shroud. 
Twixt  the  daisies  white  and  red, 
Kneel  upon  holier  ground. 

Pansies  are  sweeter,  are  sweeter  than  rue; 

Cowslips  are  rarer,  are  rarer  than  willow; 
Kiss  the  boy  who  kneels  with  you. 

Make  the  cuckoo-flowers  your  pillow. 

Death  comes  soon,  and  youth  has  wings; 

Snatch  the  chance  the  time  uncovers; 
Spring  alone  the  crocus  brings; 

God  have  mercy  on  all  lovers! 


FIRST     AND     LAST  65 


FIRST  AND  LAST 

THE  primroses  are  dead. 
From  the  blackbird's  yellow  bill 
The  first  wild  music's  fled. 
Where  the  oozy  blue-bell-stalks 

Hide  the  anemones 
The  primroses  are  dead. 

Purple  and  scarlet  and  gay, 

The  later  summer  flowers 
Burn  on  the  throat  of  the  day; 
But  on  the  parched  ground 
Where  passed  that  first  wild  sound 

The  primroses  are  dead. 

Not  lightly  can  they  bear  — 
Hearts  delicate  and  rare  — 

The  loss  of  love's  first  cry. 
Rich  may  be  summer's  bloom. 
It  only  hides  a  tomb. 

When  that  cry's  dead  they  die. 


66  WORSHIP 


WORSHIP 

BROKEN  and  maimed  and  bruised 
We  beat  on  the  iron  gate 
And  cry  for  the  word  refused 
With  a  cry  most  desolate. 

From  the  sea's  edge  windy  and  lone 

From  the  land's  heart  troubled  and  dim 

The  moan  of  the  dead  joins  with  our  moan 
And  the  cry  goes  up  to  Him. 

And  cold  on  his  ultimate  throne 
His  arms  hang  stiff  by  his  side, 
And  his  mouth  falls  open  and  wide, 

Pitiful  —  frozen  to  stone. 

His  dead  eyes  stare  from  his  face 

His  dead  hands  stiffen  apart 
And  the  vultures  of  space 

Flap  screeching  about  his  heart. 

But  while  we  beat  at  the  gate 

And  cry,  with  our  dead,  to  the  Dead, 
The  great  Sun,  splendid,  elate, 

Rises  above  our  head, 
And  heedless  of  that  lost  thing 

Pitiful  there  in  space, 

And  heedless  of  our  doomed  race, 
The  children  play  on  the  sun-warmed  sod 
And  the  laughing  lovers  worship  God. 


A     DANIEL     COME     TO    JUDGMENT       67 


A  DANIEL  COME  TO  JUDGMENT 

MISJUDGED,  misread,  mistrusted,  unappeased, 
A  virgin,  proud  and  cold; 
Lovelier  than  he  whom  the  fond  Cyprian  seized 

And  could  not  hold; 
He  moves  amid  our  throng,  sits  at  our  board, 

Eats,  drinks,  and  wounds  us  all; 
The  Incarnate  Writing  of  the  Invisible  Lord 
On  our  Belshazzar's  wall. 

He  loathes  us.     His  contempt  none  can  assuage. 

Yet  is  he  maddening-fair! 
He  mocks  our  passion,  as  he  scorns  our  rage. 

His  air  is  not  our  air. 
Our  glory  and  our  pride  he  turns  to  shame 

With  his  cold  virgin  eyes. 
Up!    Let  us  drive  him  from  us  whence  he  came; 

And  stripped  of  his  disguise! 


68  THE     DEATH-BIRDS 


THE  DEATH-BIRDS 

WILL  the  rain  on  the  drenched  mould 
Never  have  rest? 

Never  —  never  —  wail  the  death-birds  in  their  flying. 
Will  the  vulture  of  night  never  fold 

Its  wings  on  its  breast? 

Never  —  never  —  wail  the  death-birds  in  their  flying. 
Will  the  wind  that  teases  the  trees 

Never  be  stilled, 
Or  the  pain  at  the  heart  of  all  these 

Never  fulfilled? 

Never  —  never  —  wail  the  death-birds  in  their  flying. 
Will  the  earth  never  cease  from  its  moan 

Or  the  sea  from  its  crying? 

Never  —  never  —  wail  the  death-birds  in  their  flying. 
And  the  whisper  of  their  dirge 
Blends  with  the  ocean-surge,  — 
"Christ's  heart  is  turned  to  stone; 
And  God's  pity  gallows-high 
Under  the  weary  sky 
Like  a  corpse  stark  and  bleak 
Can  only  whistle  and  creak." 


FINIS  69 


FINIS 

ON  softly  stepping  feet 
She  has  gone  to  seek  her  dead. 
What  will  she  do  when  she  finds  how  deep 
They  have  buried  so  dear  a  head? 

She  will  go  to  the  cowslips  then 

And  the  cuckoo-flowers  so  pale. 
In  the  cold  wet  dawn  she  will  go, 

When  the  mist  is  on  the  vale. 

And  lying  prone  on  the  ground, 

While  the  white  clouds  over  her  pass, 
Thro'  her  loosened  hair  she  will  hear  the  sound 
Of  the  worms  beneath  the  grass. 

And  the  touch  of  that  cold  earth-bed 
And  the  cowslips  against  her  cheek 

Will  leave  on  her  mouth  the  kiss  of  her  dead, 
And  she  will  no  further  seek. 


70  NEPENTHE 


SEMELE 

HONEY  and  milk  for  her 
Whose  kiss  tastes  of  the  sun! 
The  burning  candles  of  all  the  dead 
Bow  to  her  one  by  one. 

Pluck  all  the  summer's  bloom 
Her  sweet  bare  knees  to  cover! 

Quick!  or  the  sealed-up  tomb 
Will  vent  its  dust  to  love  her. 

Her  eyelids  droop.    Away! 

The  gods  —  the  gods  have  found  her. 
She  was  ours;    but  we  are  clay. 

May  their  arms  be  flame  around  her! 


NEPENTHE 

WHERE  ferns  hang  cool  by  the  forest  pool, 
And  moss  at  the  roots  of  trees 
Grows  richly  green  in  the  flickering  sheen 

Of  noons  that  drowse  the  breeze, 
Be  her  eyes  forgot  and  her  hair  forgot, 
And  forgot  — Oh  Christ!  — her  lips! 
On  the  ancient  breast  of  the  mother  of  rest 
We  may  mock  a  world's  eclipse. 


DIALOGUE  71 


DIALOGUE 

I  HAVE  tasted  the  gall  with  my  tongue, 
And  the  wormwood  with  my  lips. 
"Enough;   curse  life!"    cries  the  grave. 
I  have  heard  my  love-dirge  sung 
And  the  knell  of  friendship  rung. 
I  have  been  scourged  with  whips. 

But  still,  in  a  garden  I  know, 
The  purple  hyacinths  blow; 

And  their  scent  is  as  it  was; 
And  still  where  the  long  tides  run 
The  wet  sands  gleam  in  the  sun; 

And  their  laugh  is  as  it  was. 

Therefore  I  say  to  the  grave  — 
"Though  gall  and  wormwood  sting, 
And  the  whips  of  fate  bite  shrewdly, 

There  is  yet  another  thing. 
Hyacinths  are  purple  yet, 
And  the  bright  sea-sands  still  wet; 
And  the  touch  of  them  both  awakes  in  me 
Memories  deeper  than  memory. 
Therefore,  though  death  can  save, 
I  cannot  curse  life,  O  grave! 


72  SLEEP 


SLEEP 

THE  city  sleeps;   the  fierce  metallic  roar 
Ebbs  like  a  broken  wave; 
A  wave  drawn  back  to  the  silent  ocean-floor. 
The  city  sleeps;   and  the  sleeper,  what  dreams  she? 

She  dreams 
Of  tiny  grasses,  lifted  and  dropped  and  lifted, 

As  the  wind  goes  over  the  hill; 
Of  feathery  reed-tops,  rising  and  falling  and  rising, 
As  the  mill-stream  turns  the  mill. 

The  city  sleeps;  and  the  dreamer,  what  dreams  he? 

He  dreams 
Of  tender  fern-fronds  drooping  o'er  mosses  cool 

By  the  cart-track's  side; 
Of  crimson  seaweed  rocked  in  the  shadowy  pool 

Where  the  boat-keels  ride. 

The  city  sleeps;    and  one  by  one  the  clouds 

Darken  the  moon. 

The  dreamers  mutter  and  toss  and  softly  weep; 
Then,  cold  and  still,  like  corpses  in  their  shrouds, 
They  sleep. 


THE     EPIPHANY     OF     THE     MAD       73 


THE  EPIPHANY  OF  THE  MAD 

I  AM  the  voice  of  the  outcast  things, 
The  refuse  and  the  drift. 

What  the  waves  wash  up  and  the  rivers  spurn 
And  the  Golgothas  of  the  cities  burn, 
For  these  my  song  I  lift. 

I  sing  in  dust;    I  sing  in  mire; 

I  sing  in  slag  and  silt; 
I  sing  in  the  reek  of  the  rubble-fire; 

I  sing  where  sewers  are  spilt; 

I  sing  where  the  paupers  have  their  grave; 

I  sing  where  abortions  lie; 
I  sing  where  the  mad-house  nettles  wave; 

I  sing  where  the  hearse  goes  by. 

And  all  my  tune  is  taught  by  the  Moon; 

For  the  Moon  looks  down  on  all; 
And  the  song  I  sing  of  each  outcast  thing 

Is  a  mad  Moon-madrigal. 

But  all  my  thoughts  as  I  sing  this  tune 

Are  about  a  little  star 
That  soon  or  late,  that  late  or  soon, 
The  evilest  things  beneath  the  moon 

Approach  and  cleansed  are. 


74  DUALITY 


DUALITY 

I  NEVER  pass  a  human  house 
But  another  house  is  there, 
Too  vague,  too  sad,  for  man  or  mouse, 
Its  rafters  made  of  air. 

Of  night's  black  feathers  are  its  doors, 

Its  roof  of  woven  mist, 
And  in  its  shadowy  corridors 

Strange  phantoms  keep  their  tryst. 

I  never  cross  a  lonely  road 

But  another  road  I  see, 
Where  no  man  travels  with  his  load, 

No  turnpike  takes  its  fee,  — 

With  ancient  floods  its  pools  are  brimmed; 

Old  footprints  mark  its  edge; 
But  not  a  swallow  ever  skimmed 

Along  its  withered  sedge. 

I  never  pass  a  holy  place 

But  another  shrine  is  there, 
With  sorrows  written  on  its  face 

No  man  or  god  may  share; 

With  sorrows  graven  on  its  stone, 
Washed  by  ten-thousand  rains, 

And  sealed  urns  whose  ashes  moan 
Old  lost  forgotten  pains. 


DUALITY  75 


I  never  pass  a  sleeper's  head 

But  another  head  I  see; 
And  Christ  —  or  Christ's  own  Mother  —  dead 

Lies  there  in  front  of  me. 

O  double  life,  O  double  death, 

When  will  these  spells  confused 
Dissolve  'neath  some  tremendous  breath 

Or  be  forever  fused? 

When  will  the  house,  the  road,  the  shrine, 

No  more  their  secret  keep, 
And  the  human  face  seem  as  divine 

Awake,  as  in  its  sleep? 


76  ITISNOTNICE 


IT  IS  NOT  NICE 

IT  is  not  nice  to  see 
Quite  such  little  children 

Shiver  with  cold. 
It  is  not  nice  to  see 
Quite  such  little  children 

Bought  and  sold. 
It  is  not  nice  to  hear  the  raucous 
Voices  of  the  civic  caucus 
Talk  of  popular  education 
While  with  hideous  emulation 

They  scramble  and  spit 

For  the  golden  bit. 
It  is  not  nice  to  see  the  faces 
Of  eminent  persons  in  their  places, 

Plotting  after  their  sort; 
It  is  not  nice  their  women  to  see 
Staring  at  the  frippery 
By  rascals  in  shop-windows  hung! 
All  these,  and  other  things,  among 

And  worse  is  in  the  list  — 
Might  really  make  a  humble  poet- 
If  he  weren't  afraid  to  show  it 
And  wasn't  earning  his  bread 
By  making  rhymes  on  the  dead 
For  the  fattest  of  the  living, 
And  hadn't  a  slight  misgiving 
And  a  suspicion  dim 
That  'twould  be  the  end  of  him  — 

Into  —  so  bad  is  the  list  — 

An  absolute  Nihilist! 


PRAYER  77 


PRAYER 

CHOKED  we  live,  and  choked  we  die. 
Give  us  air  and  give  us  space, 
You  intolerable  sky! 
JTis  not  much  —  a  little  grace  — 
JTis  not  long  —  a  little  thing  — 

That  before  our  burying 
We  may  cry  one  natural  cry. 

O  to  put  into  one  breath  — 

Only  one,  — 

All  the  poison  of  our  hate, 
All  —  all  —  all  —  that  came  too  late; 
Give  us  that;  —  and  when  that's  done, 

Death! 


COME,     LET     IT     GO 


COME,  LET  IT  GO 

GOME,  let  it  go.     The  little  shoots 
Another  year  will  blow, 
While  you  and  I  beneath  their  roots 
Will  neither  care  nor  know. 

Another  year  the  quivering  lark 
Poised  on  mid-air  will  skim, 

While  you  and  I  within  the  dark 
Will  take  no  heed  of  him. 

No  question  then,  dear  heart,  'twill  be 

As  to  the  gold  we  piled, 
Or  how  the  witch,  prosperity, 

Was  cozened  and  beguiled. 

Was  I,  in  whom  you  trusted,  kind? 

Did  you,  who  loved  me,  keep 
True?   We  shall  sleep  then  to  our  mind! 

If  not  —  we  still  shall  sleep. 


DILEMMA 


79 


DILEMMA 

THE  shadows  fall  as  the  sun  sinks  down 
And  heavily  droops  the  day; 
A  leaden  pall  weighs  on  tower  and  town 
And  the  last  of  the  dead  leaves  flutters  down 
And  the  swallows  fly  away. 

And  the  road  winds  always  across  the  plain, 
And  always  its  milestones  glimmer  white; 

But  the  travellers  there  come  not  again: 
They  are  lost  in  the  night. 

Will  the  swallows  never  fly  back  to  our  eaves? 
Will  our  branches  never  bear  fresh  green  leaves? 

Will  the  sun  never  lift  our  load? 
Must  we  live  weighed  down  in  a  twilight-town 

Or  be  lost  on  a  midnight-road? 


8o  THE     WINDS     THAT     WEPT 


THE  WINDS  THAT  WEPT 

THE  winds  that  wept  round  Helen  lone, 
The  waves  that  Iseult's  vessel  tossed, 
I  hear  them  on  this  beach; 
I  hear  them  and  their  wordless  moan 
Comes  to  me  like  a  spirit  lost 
That  struggles  to  find  speech. 

The  same  old  sobbing,  the  same  cry, 
Rising  and  falling  on  the  sand, 

No  pause  and  no  relief  - 
Is  there  no  heart  in  all  the  sky? 
Has  not  one  god  a  human  hand 

To  ease  us  of  our  grief? 

Not  one!    Not  one!    And  so  it  goes. 
And  how  it  goes  too  well  we  know 

By  the  eternal  sea! 
Unto  one  end  all  sorrow  flows. 
Helen  and  Iseult  long  ago 

Have  gone  —  And  go  shall  we. 


YOUR    PORPHYRIES,  YOUR   TAPESTRIES    8l 


YOUR  PORPHYRIES,  YOUR  TAPESTRIES 

YOUR  porphyries,  your  tapestries, 
Your  silks  from  Samarcand, 
Your  musk,  your  myrrh,  your  ambergris, 
They  are  not  worth  a  single  kiss 
On  a  country  maiden's  hand; 

They  are  not  worth  a  single  hour 

In  a  certain  field  I  know, 
Where  the  only  flower  is  the  cuckoo-flower, 
And  the  only  thing  that  marks  the  hour 

Is  the  shade  the  chestnuts  throw. 

The  sliding  down  of  the  twilight  dim 

On  a  garden  wet  with  rain 

When  the  blackbird's  song  floats  away  from  him 
Over  the  world's  mysterious  rim 

And  we  hear  it  not  again; 

The  crackling  sticks  of  a  country  fire, 

And  the  smell  of  wheaten  bread, 
And  the  sweet  sharp  sting  of  old  desire, 
And  the  good  ale  mounting  high  and  higher 

Into  each  honest  head; 

Are  dearer  to  me  than  the  shimmering  sun 

On  San  Clemente's  steps, 
Or  the  foot-falls  echoing  one  by  one, 
On  the  stones  of  the  Place  du  Pantheon, 

Of  the  "Quartier"  demi-reps. 


82    YOUR    PORPHYRIES,  YOUR   TAPESTRIES 

Your  Castilian  airs,  and  your  Tuscan  strains, 
And  your  flute  that  soothes  and  flatters, 

May  lull  the  soul;   but  the  heart  remains 

True  to  its  ancient  fields  and  lanes 
And  its  homely  "country  matters." 


THEESCAPE  83 


•     THE  ESCAPE 

IN  the  dreadful  city's  roar 
I  have  my  clue  to  peace; 
And  I  carry  it  evermore, 

And  it  always  brings  release. 

'Tis  a  spot  which  I  once  found, 

Bordered  by  grasses  tall, 
Where  a  garden  touches  a  burying-ground, 

And  elm-tree  shadows  fall. 

Here  I  can  feel  rtiy  bones 

Mouldering  one  by  one, 
Far  from  the  rattle  of  wheels  on  stones, 

While  the  slowly-mounting  sun 

Gleams  on  the  slope  of  the  hill 
And  shines  on  the  stream  beyond; 

And  the  village  maidens  bend  and  fill 
Their  buckets  at  the  pond. 

And  the  people  little  guess 

As  they  pass  me  in  train  and  car, 

Why  I  stretch  my  legs,  and  press 
My  hands  together,  and  stare  — 

They  can  see  not  the  slope  of  the  hill; 

They  can  see  not  the  stream  beyond; 
They  can  see  not  the  elm-tree  hushed  and  still, 

Nor  the  buckets  at  the  pond  — 


84  THEESCAPE 

They  know  not  how  tender-sweet 

It  is  to  feel  one's  bones 
With  honest  earth-mould  mingle,  and  meet, 
In  the  dust,  with  delicate  hands  and  feet, 

Far  from  these  clattering  stones. 


RENAISSANCE  85 


RENAISSANCE 

STILL  we  hear  it- 
Clear,  immortal,  undying,  — 
The  old  sweet  chant 
Of  those  that  worship  the  sun! 

Pallid,  perverse,  diseased, 
The  mystical  rabble 
Gibber  and  twitter  and  weep. 
With  a  waving  of  leprous  arms, 
With  a  beating  of  epicene  breasts, 
They  mutter  their  prayers  to  the  night, 
And  the  moon,  their  odalisque. 

But  still  we  hear  it  — 
Clear,  immortal,  undying,  — 
The  old  sweet  chant 
Of  those  that  worship  the  sun! 


86  DAFFODILS 


DAFFODILS 

A  BATTERED  English  actor,  hired  to  act 
In  a  Chicago  play-house,  —  act  the  fool; 
Lean  purse,  sick  soul,  nerves  mercilessly  racked 
In  what  the  preachers  call  life's  wholesome  school, 

Shuffling  down  Wabash,  with  a  heart  that  pined 
For  water-brooks  and  the  eternal  hills, 

If  not  for  Zion,  was  entranced  to  find, 
In  a  shop- window,  living  daffodils. 

"O  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall 

From  Dis's  wagon!"     In  a  moment  fell 
Before  that  golden  shout  the  hated  wall 

That  held  him.     All  the  hubbub,  all  the  hell 

Rolled  like  a  vapour  from  the  heart  that  ached; 

And  he  saw  Oxford,  saw  the  lovely  tower 
Of  Magdalen,  saw  the  gardener-men  who  raked  - 

Old  men,  who  had  known  Swinburne  in  his  hour  — 

Dead  leaves  across  the  graves  of  poets  dead; 

And  he  saw  purple  loose-strife  drowse  and  dream 
As  his  barge  passed  it,  drifting,  and  his  head 

Drowsed  also,  carried  down  that  gracious  stream. 

And  he  forgot  how  he  had  played  the  mime, 
Mimicked  his  fathers'  gods  to  make  them  laugh, 

Bawled  the  sweet  ancient  ditties  out  of  time, 
And  for  a  drachma  torn  his  soul  in  half. 


DAFFODILS  87 

He  saw  the  marigolds  which  Isis  yields; 

He  saw  the  Scholar-gipsy  of  the  Song 
Pass  on  his  quest;    he  saw  the  Christ  Church  fields, 

The  sunlit  banks  and  the  familiar  throng. 

Wabash  with  all  its  rails  and  all  its  roar 

Melted  to  nothing,  and  once  more  he  moved 

Wrapped  in  youth's  dreams  and  legendary  lore 
Where  Burton  jested  and  where  Shelley  loved. 

"For  the  flowers  now,  that"  —  How  his  poor  heart 

fills, 
And  his  tense  nerves. relax!    \Vhat  dreams!    What 

dreams! 
He  stops  —  that  bunch  of  living  Daffodils 

Brings  more  than  Oxford  to  his  eyes  —  He  seems 

To  hear  the  Mediterranean's  brimming  tide 
Again;   and  from  his  wounded  spirit,  borne 

Away,  all  anguish  ceases;   at  his  side 

She  stands  —  the  poor  fool  is  no  more  forlorn. 


88    IN     A     HOTEL     WRITING-ROOM 


IN  A  HOTEL  WRITING-ROOM 

WE  artists  have  strange  nerves! 
That  man  in  front  of  me, 
I  had  been  hating  him 
Implacably, 

Just  for  the  lines  and  curves 
Of  his  unconscious  face, 
Lines  that  brought  no  disgrace 
Upon  humanity. 

But  when  that  same  man  spoke, 
And  with  a  grunt  and  wheeze 
Asked  me  how  many  cs 
Had  the  word  "Necessity," 
The  cord  of  my  hatred  broke. 
"For  how's  a  beggar  to  tell" 
He  said;  —  and  I  loved  him  for  it  — 
"With  a  word  as  long  as  hell, 
If  no  wise  blighter  tells  us?" 
—"You  are  right,  my  friend.     We  may  score  it 
Over  and  over  with  c; 
But  at  last  it  is  not  we 
Who  spell  *  Necessity/ 
But  Necessity  who  spells  us!" 
He  smiled.     I  smiled.     And  between 
Your  artist  and  your  drummer 
Swept,  on  a  breeze  of  summer, 
A  wave  of  sympathy; 
And  we  even  came  to  wonder 
Where  —  in  the  name  of  thunder  — 
We  had  met  before  this  scene. 


TO     AN     IDEALISTIC     POET          89 


TO  AN   IDEALISTIC  POET 

OWHY,  dear  heart,  drag  in 
The  over-soul  —  and  why 
Must  that  poor  phantom-thing 
They  call  democracy 

Crow  in  your  verse  and  fly 

Skyward  on  barn-door  wings? 
Each  is  a  lie  —  a  lie! 

And  lies  are  ugly  things. 

Do  you  not  know  —  with  all  your  iteration  — 

You  who  have  lived  so  long 

Listening  the  Muse's  song, 
What  is  the  role  of  true  Imagination? 

Goethe  to  Eckermann 

Said  once;  —  and  he  was  wise,  — 
"Avoid  high  thought  and  scan 

Nature  with  both  your  eyes." 

"Do  Hercules  himself," 

Said  Hamlet,  "what  he  may; 
The  cat  will  mew;   the  dog 

Will  have  his  day." 

Democracies  and  over-souls, 

Life  spins  them  up  and  sucks  them  down, 
As  round  the  sun  the  old  earth  rolls 

And  the  green  leaves  bud  in  lane  and  town. 


QO          TO     AN      IDEALISTIC     POET 

Over-souls  and  democracies 

Life  sucks  them  down  and  spins  them  up, 
As  the  immense  translunar  cup 

Gleams  with  its  stellar  autocracies. 

In  the  streets  of  the  town  the  harlot  waits; 

Even  so,  —  democracy  or  not. 
The  lovers  lean  upon  country  gates; 

Even  so,  —  the  over-soul  or  not. 

The  little  things — the  old  world's  heart — 
Come  back,  my  Poet,  and  write  of  these! 

The  Preacher  will  perform  his  part 
With  the  over-souls  and  democracies. 


THE     UPLIFTER THREE     SCENES       91 


THE  UPLIFTER  — THREE  SCENES 

AT  last!    And  every  word- 
How  hushed  the  people  are!  — 
Is  yours,  my  hawk-eyed  bird; 
Is  yours,  my  quivering  star. 
Great  heart!     The  flames  which  roll 

Thro*  you  redeem  the  race. 
Your  lips,  sweet;  —  no,  your  soul! 
—  The  signal!    Take  your  place. 

Don't  laugh!     I  do  not  love  you  when  you  laugh. 

Yes,  child;    I  am  that  person  they  talk  about  — 
The  Uplifter  of  the  people,  the ,  or  half 

Of   me    is  —  or    perhaps  a  third!     What?     Did   I 

shout? 
It  is  a  trick  I  learnt  from  someone — ;  well? 

Yes!     But   it   doesn't   matter!     Yes;     but   not   as 

young 

As  you  —  or  half  so  pretty!     I  cannot  tell 
What  I  saw  in  her.     Pest!     Your  prompter's  bell. 

Tulips?     No;  —  only  pansies  in  that  row! 

How   that   thrush   sings !     Hand    me   the   spade  — 

no;   wait 
Till  I  have  stamped  the  earth  around  them;  —  so! 

You  can  have  no  conception  how  I  hate 
The  common  crowd !     A  minx  it  is  —  a  flirt. 

See  'em  again?     Not  I!     It  is  too  late. 
Henceforth  all  I  uplift  is  —  honest  dirt! 


Q2  KINGS 


KINGS 

KINGS  drop  from  ghostly  hands 
Their  sceptres  dark  with  rust. 
Kings  turn  their  ghostly  feet 

From  footstools  fallen  to  dust. 
The  lovely  breasts  they  leant  upon 
Are  all  to  ashes  gone. 

The  wine  of  Tyre  is  poured  out. 

The  towers  of  Sidon  are  desolate. 

The  swords  of  Nineveh  are  broken. 

The  dancers  of  Babylon  lie  dead. 

But  the  wind  blowing  over  the  drowned  sea-weed, 

Over  the  salt  margins, 

Over  the  grey  pools, 

Over  the  tossed-up  shingle, 
Has  the  same  form  of  nothingness, 
Has  the  same  voice  of  supplication, 
And  cries  aloud  upon  the  same  Moon, 
As  when  in  the  silent  Desert 
They  built  the  Pyramids. 

The  ghosts  of  kings  troop  by, 
And  their  Lemans  sorrowfully 
Wail  as  they  watch  them  pass. 

And  standing  on  the  sands 
Where  the  dead  fade  and  sink, 
I  stoop  and  write  on  the  brink, 

Words  that  the  wind  understands. 


THEDREAM  93 


THE  DREAM 

<HE  fields  are  full  of  light.    They  hold  it  up 

Rich,  warm,  and  wavering,  in  a  shadowy  cup. 
I  drink  it,  and  I  seem 
To  taste  an  ancient  dream. 

The  night  is  full  of  mists.     It  holds  them  up 
Quivering  and  cool  in  a  black  marble  cup. 

I  drink  them,  and  they  seem 

To  taste  of  the  same  dream. 

The  woods  are  full  of  rain.     All  day  it  falls. 

All  night  it  beats  against  the  city  walls. 

The  winds  go  wailing  by 

Under  an  empty  sky 

And  all  the  world  is  as  a  bitter  cup 

That  Life  itself  holds  up. 

I  drink  it.     And  I  know  most  miserably 

What  that  dream  meant  for  me. 


94  DEATH 


DEATH 

DRIFT  of  dying  leaves  whirls  round  me, 
And  disconsolately,  like  bells 
Of  a  submerged  city,  sounds  the 

Dirge  that  tells 

Of  the  streaming  air-borne  hosts 
Of  the  interminable  ghosts 
From  the  graves  the  planets  bear 
Through  the  windless  whispering  air: 
Ghosts  of  all  the  dead  in  Mars, 
Ghosts  of  Saturn,  ghosts  of  stars 
More  remote  from  Earth  than  those 
Which  Algol  or  Orion  knows. 
And  the  sound  of  Death  ascends 

From  the  universal  air 
Falling  softlier  when  it  blends 

With  the  primal  silence  there. 
From  the  Milky  Way  wide-spread, 
Rain  into  outer  space  the  dead. 
Into  that  outer  space  are  hurled 
Ghosts  from  worlds  beyond  the  World. 

The  worm  that  feeds  on  Caesar's  head 

Wonders,  groping  in  the  dark, 
Why,  if  all  these  dead  are  dead, 

Ever  flamed  the  vital  spark. 
And  the  reeling  earth, 

Sick  of  the  weight  of  a  sky  heavy  with  death, 
Sullenly  muttereth 
Curses  on  its  own  birth. 
But  the  vital  flames  still  spout, 
And  naught  can  put  them  out! 


DEATH  95 

Dust  piled  on  dust 

Cannot  smother  Life's  lust! 

Every  dead  leaf  that  strews  the  breeze 

Manures  the  ground  to  make  other  trees; 

And  every  dead  Moon  that  fills  the  sky 

Will  be  a  new-shining  planet  by  and  bye. 

Enough!    Let  it  cease,  this  reiteration! 

Let  it  cease,  let  it  cease,  this  repetition! 

These  ghosts  that  are  drift-wood  to  make  new  fire 

Fill  me  with  a  strange  desire. 

Would  they  might  sink  and  lose  their  breath 

In  a  death  deeper  than  any  death! 

Sink  utterly,  utterly,  and  be 

Swallowed  up  in  Eternity! 


96  PRAYER 


PRAYER 

IF  Beauty  only  died  with  Love, 
And  Life  with  Beauty  fled, 
How  sweet  it  were  to  live  and  love 

Ere  we  were  dead! 
Is  there  not  reason  to  pray? 

Put  up  the  sword  and  pass! 

Pull  off  the  mask  and  kneel! 
Like  mimes  and  shadows  in  a  glass 

Through  life  we  steal. 
Is  there  not  reason  to  pray? 

The  flowers  bloom 

Is  the  bud's  doom; 

And  the  flowers  fall 

When  the  fruit  ripens  on  the  wall. 

Lamps  draw  the  moths  and  burn  them. 
Hopes  draw  our  hearts  and  spurn  them. 

Then  comes  the  end; 
And  the  rain,  the  rain  is  on  the  roof! 

Thus  in  a  narrow  oblong  hole, 

Beyond  the  clutches  of  the  mole, 

Where  no  bat's  cry  can  come, 

And  the  winds  are  dumb, 

The  empty  case  of  Love,  the  husk  of  Beauty, 

Is  laid  in  the  cold  clay. 

Is  there  not  reason  to  pray? 
There  is  reason  to  pray,  God  knows! 
And  He  knows  if  He  hears  us! 


THE     UNDER-WORLD  97 


THE  UNDER-WORLD 

SINK,  sink  down,  O  heart,  where  out  of  its  shadows 
Thy  lost  Atlantis 

Cries  to  thee  with  the  cry  of  a  populous  city 
Softened  by  distance. 

Let  the  dim  green  depths  and  the  quivering  moon 
beams 

Soothe  thee  a  little, 
Till  the  long  hot  fevers  and  lusts  of  living 

Leave  thee  in  quiet. 

Let  the  drowned  steeples  and  shaken  belfries 

Lull  thy  disturbance. 
Let  the  swinging  censers  of  submerged  altars 

Heal  thy  distresses. 

Sink,  sink  down,  O  heart,  where  the  tossing  sea-weed 

Wavers  and  trembles. 

Sink,   sink  down  where  the  great  wrecked  ships  go 
drifting 

Borne  on  the  current. 

All  is  equal  there;   where  thy  lost  Atlantis 

Cries  to  thee  softly; 
With  the  sweet  low  cry  of  a  thing  forgotten 

Plaintively  calling. 

Nothing  matters  there,  where  the  waves  of  moonlight 

Sink  to  the  sea-floor; 
Life  and  Death  are  words  of  a  tedious  language, 

Let  us  forget  them! 


98  THE     UNDER-WORLD 

Let  us  forget,  O  heart,  all  thy  recent  rages, 

Thy  foolish  fires; 
Here  thy  long-lost  love  is  abiding  for  thee; 

Sink,  and  possess  her! 

Sink,  sink  down,  O  heart,  and  possess  thy  darling, 

Thy  lost  Atlantis, 
Till  the  long  hot  fevers  and  lusts  of  living 

Leave  thee  in  quiet. 


THE     IMMIGRANT  99 


V     THE  IMMIGRANT 

THIS  raving  crowd,  immense  and  blind, 
This  smoke,  this  filth,  this  rain, 
On  her  withdrawn  and  virgin  mind 

Leave  not  the  slightest  stain. 
Stark  poverty  and  monstrous  wealth, 

Huge  stores  or  huts  of  wood, 
She  passes,  centered  in  herself 
And  armoured  in  her  mood. 

Her  smiling  Attic  eyes  keep  still, 

Remote,  archaic,  gay, 
The  freshness  of  the  old  world's  will, 

The  secret  of  its  way; 
Too  deep-aloof  to  feel  disdain 

Her  classic  spirit  turns 
To  where  unfouled  by  smoke  or  rain 

The  ancient  altar  burns. 

Its  flame  goes  with  her,  proudly  borne 

In  the  porphyry  of  her  soul, 
As  an  ice-cold  vase  of  crystal  scorn 

Might  hold  a  burning  coal; 
And  all  the  squalor  of  our  grief 

\nd  the  grossness  of  our  glee 
Endure  the  intolerable  relief 

Of  her  serenity. 


100  THE     MESSENGERS 


THE  MESSENGERS 

THE  shadows  in  the  garden  listen 
While  the  flowers  weep. 
Why  does  the  door  swing  on  its  hinges? 
The  shadows  on  the  roadway  listen 

While  the  grasses  sleep. 
Why  does  the  gate  stand  open  so  wide? 

Over  the  hills  where  the  sun  went  down 

The  Messengers  come. 
They  stoop.     They  stumble.     Their  hair  is  white. 

They  are  dumb. 

What  shall  we  do  to  the  messengers  when  they  enter 

To  make  them  whisper  the  thing? 
Hush!     Be    silent.     Our    mother   the    Earth    to    her 
centre 

Trembles  at  what  they  bring! 

Wreathe  roses,  spread  tables,  pour  wine; 
Feast  them  —  but  let  them  depart! 

Peace,  Earth!     We  will  not  know. 
Who  are  we  that  so 
We  should  break  our  mother's  heart? 

Hush!    They  are  going  now: 

Going  as  they  came. 
And  we  wipe  the  sweat  from  our  brow 

And  name  God's  name. 

But  the  shadows  still  listen; 

And  the  gate  remains  still  open; 

And  the  door  still  swings  on  its  hinges. 


THE     PUBLIC     GARDEN  IOI 


THE  PUBLIC  GARDEN 

A  BURDEN  of  horrible  loathing 
Weighed  down  on  me  out  of  the  sky, 
Heavy  and  like  a  pall. 
Can  I  endure  this  and  live? 
What  matter?     Under  the  ground 

Moles  burrow  and  lob-worms  crawl; 
Yet  quite  untroubled  we  lie! 

This  morning  I  took  my  seat 

In  a  public  garden. 

Desolation  and  I 

Stared  at  the  gravel. 

A  fountain  that  could  not  play 

Mocked  each  new-comer; 
And  the  white  sick  eyes  of  the  day 

Jeered  at  the  summer. 

Far  off,  in  the  town,  church-bells 

Expression  brought 
To  the  loathing  my  spirit  felt, 

After  this  sort;  — 

"Round  our  altars  flaps  the  bat, 
Squealing  like  an  unlaid  ghost, 
And  the  holy  bread  of  the  Host 

Is  nibbled  by  a  rat." 

An  arbour  littered  with  dust 

Blinked  at  the  garden. 
A  gate  of  iron  and  rust 

Guarded  the  garden. 


102  THE     PUBLIC     GARDEN 

A  wind  that  smelt  of  the  town 

Sighed  incessant  through  these, 
Whirling  torn  papers  about, 

And  fretting  the  trees. 

Euonymus  bushes  and  Privet 

Grew  starkly  there; 
With  shrubs  less  adapted  than  civet 

To  cleanse  a  foul  air. 
Steely  and  grey  looked  the  sun, 

Like  a  sickle  on  sheaves; 
Thunder-drops  one  by  one 

Fell  on  the  leaves. 

A  mackintoshed  woman  obtruded 

Her  chin  to  the  rain; 
Peering  at  me,  as  though  I  intruded 

On  her  private  pain. 
Her  mackintosh  smelt  of  the  grave-yard. 

A  cemetery  touch 
Made  her  cheeks  pale  as  corruption 

And  loathsome  as  such. 

This  woman  seemed  Horror's  twin-sister. 

She  harmonized  well 
With  the  gate  and  the  arbour  and  gravel 

Of  that  corner  of  hell. 
She  was  Virtue's  own  child,  but  —  sweet  Saviour! 

How  dreadful  and  drear; 
As  the  sick  white  eyes  of  that  moment 

Turned  on  her  their  leer. 

This  woman,  thought  I,  is  the  spirit 

Of  this  frightful  place! 
She  is  old  as  the  planet,  and  with  it 

Goes  mumbling  through  Space. 


THE     PUBLIC     GARDEN  103 

What  matter?    The  earth  is  sufficient 

To  lie  on  each  head 
That  aches  from  these  visions  pernicious 

With  which  we  are  fed. 

Though  mackintoshed  females  like  corpses 

Peer  at  us  in  rows; 
Though  winds  drive  torn  papers  before  them 

And  Euonymus  grows 
In  eternal  successions  of  gardens 

Whose  fountains  can't  play; 
Though  bats  flap  down  over  our  altars 

And  rats  eat  Christ's  Body; 
Though  moles  dig  the  roots  of  Creation 

And  lob- worms  crawl  through  it; 
We  shall  find  in  the  arms  of  Negation 

Sweet  peace  and  ensue  it! 


104  TO     M.   C.   P. 


TO  M.  C.   P. 

YOUR  hands  are  cold.     Your  lips  are  cold. 
And  colder  still  your  breast. 
But  to  you  I  turn  when  all  is  told, 
Simply  to  rest. 

I  only  loved  you  after  you  were  dead; 

For  only  then  I  knew 
What  an  accomplice  in  her  travail-bed 

Life  had  in  you. 

The  shade  of  all  the  murderous  suffering 

That  cradles  birth 
Fell  on  the  ivory  forehead  of  the  thing 

You  were  on  earth. 

And  who  that  ever  read  Life's  sorrow  stark 

On  a  dead  forehead  writ 
Beheld  such  grief  as  yours  bore,  ere  the  dark 

Swallowed  and  cancelled  it? 

Your  hands  are  cold.     Your  lips  are  cold. 

And  colder  still  your  breast. 
But  to  you  I  turn  when  all  is  told, 

Simply  to  rest. 

I  turn  to  you  and  the  Night  your  friend! 
May  your  crescent  moons 
And  your  silences  and  sad  sea-tunes 
And  your  wistful-plaintive  rhythmic  runes 

Drift  over  me  without  an  end; 

Drift  over  me  and  drive  away 

Mention  and  memory  of  Day. 


TO     M.  C.   P.  105 


For  I  want  before  I  die 

To  feel  as  midnight  feels  when  keen  and  cold 
The  high  stars  mount  into  their  places  old 

And  Cygnus  spreads  his  wings  across  the  sky. 

I  want  before  I  die,  without  despair, 

To  face  what  is  left  there, 

When  one  by  one  life's  masks  drop  from  her  brow, 

And  the  cold  glacial  snow 

Of  her  abysmal  smile  makes  final  scorn 

Of  all  that  she  hath  borne! 

I  want  before  I  die  to  breathe  an  air 
More  large,  more  calm,  more  rare, 

More  deeply  dipped  in  Space. 

I  want  to  look  Orion  in  the  face 
And  wear  the  indifference  that  the  hushed  dead  wear. 

For  I  am  weary  of  the  gleams, 

The  dust,  the  laughter,  and  the  dancers'  tread. 
I  want  before  I  die  to  wake  from  dreams 

And  feel  the  Outer  Dark  about  my  head. 

Your  hands  are  cold.     Your  lips  are  cold. 

And  colder  still  your  breast. 
But  to  you  I  turn  when  all  is  told, 

Simply  to  rest. 


106          SONG     OF     THE     OLD     MEN 


SONG  OF  THE  OLD  MEN 

SHADOWS  drifting,  drifting,  drifting,  drifting; 
Wraiths  of  mist  and  rain; 
Shadows  beckoning,  beckoning,  beckoning,  beckoning, 

Down  the  vaulted  lane. 

They  go  before  us,  and  we  limp  behind  them, 
Slowly,  and  in  pain. 

Will  no  god  or  angel  tell  us  truly 

Whose  the  faces  hidden  by  those  cowls? 

Whose  the  hands  those  hoods  conceal  so  throughly? 
Whose  the  light  limbs  underneath  those  shrouds? 

Saints!     That  Shadow,  slenderer  than  the  others! 

My  Lost  Love  —  'tis  she! 
Christ!    That  Shadow,  taller  than  its  brothers! 

My  Friend  of  Friends  —  'tis  he! 

We  are  dull.     We  hardly  may  remember 

The  sweet  magic  words  that  once  could  move  — 

Old  lewd  country- jests,  soft  signals  tender, 
Mad  wild  quips  and  nonsense-lures  of  love. 

Will  no  god  or  angel  turn  and  find  me 
What  I  said  that  made  her  kiss  and  cling? 

Will  no  god  or  demi-god  remind  me 

What  I  did  to  make  him  crown  me  king? 

Has  this  vaulted  lane  not  even  echoes? 

Have  these  wraiths  not  even  tears  to  shed? 
No  matter.     All  is  equal.     Vaults  are  lifted, 

Lanes  levelled,  tears  forgotten,  when  we're  dead! 


SONG     OF     THE     OLD     MEN          107 

Shadows  drifting,  drifting,  drifting,  drifting, 

Wraiths  of  mist  and  rain, 
To  eternal  silence  trooping  dumbly, 

Done  with  pain. 

Done  with   consciousness  and  memory  and   identity 
and  pain. 


108  THE     JOY     OF     LIVING 


THE  JOY  OF  LIVING 

THE  Earth  is  weary  and  dull  as  a  stone. 
When  will  the  terrible  spirit  of  life 
Leave  her  alone? 

Why  must  every  day  she  bring  forth  again 
Trouble  and  agitation  and  pain, 
Passion  and  pity,  and  stress  and  strife, 
Under  the  spirit  of  life? 

The  little  grasses  on  her  breast 
Sigh  to  be  left  at  rest. 
Why  must  they  spread  their  seeds  so  wide, 
Only  to  fill  the  fields  with  pride? 
The  souls  of  infants  within  the  womb 
Sigh  to  be  left  in  that  peaceful  tomb. 
Why  must  they  force  their  way  to  the  light 
Only  to  sink  back  into  night? 

The  thoughts  of  great  and  inspired  wit 
Have  little  longing  those  brains  to  quit. 
Far  sooner  they'd  dream  in  their  cradles  furled 
Than  roam  about  and  convert  the  world. 

The  quiet  gulfs  of  abysmal  Space, 

What  have  they  done  to  inherit 

This  cruel  merit, 

This  bitter  reward, 

Of  being  rent  by  the  planet  race, 

And  torn  by  the  meteor's  sword? 


THE     JOY     OF     LIVING  IOp 

From  the  heights  and  the  depths, 

From  the  seas  and  the  hills, 

Goes  up  forever 

The  ancient  cry- 

What  have  we  done 

That  we  should  live  to  suffer; 

That  we  should  live  to  die? 

The  Earth  is  weary  and  dull  as  a  stone. 

Will  life  never  leave  her  alone? 


110     THE     HOUR     BEFORE     DAWN 


THE  HOUR  BEFORE  DAWN 

WHEN  the  people  and  horses  have  gone 
And  silence  has  fallen, 
The  lonely  road  wakes; 
And  all  night, 

Under  Cassiopeia  and  the  Pleiades 
It  sighs  for  its  lost  travellers. 
But  at  the  hour  before  dawn, 
When  the  stars  are  cold, 
It  whispers  the  world-secret. 

When  the  ships  have  passed, 
And  their  tracks  have  melted, 
And  the  white  horses  have  sunk, 
The  lonely  sea  wakes; 
And  all  night, 

Under  Aldebaran  and  Arcturus, 
It  moans  for  its  lost  soul. 
But  at  the  hour  before  dawn, 
When  the  stars  are  cold, 
It  whispers  the  world-secret. 

When  the  camels  have  swept  by, 
And  the  caravan  has  vanished, 
The  lonely  Desert  wakes; 
And  all  night, 
Under  Cygnus  and  Perseus, 
It  wails  for  its  dead  kings. 
But  at  the  hour  before  dawn, 
When  the  stars  are  cold, 
It  whispers  the  world-secret. 


A     CERTAIN     EVENING  III 


A  CERTAIN  EVENING 

^ INHERE  is  no  wind  tonight 
_|_        To  blow  into  the  clouds 
The  ghosts  that  rise  upright 

Out  of  their  shrouds. 
The  sultry  garden-plots 

With  odours  over-brim, 
And  a  heavy  vapour  blots 

The  sky  when  the  stars  swim. 
A  white  moth-feathered  owl 

Flaps  round  the  village  roofs; 
In  distant  yards  dogs  howl, 

And  horses  stamp  their  hoofs. 
Who  knows  what  must  forebode 

These  oft-repeated  sighs 
That  breathe  from  the  hot  road 

As  from  a  throat  that  dies? 
Who  knows  what  must  forebode 

These  panting  sighs  that  pass 
Along  the  dusty  road, 

As  from  a  throat  of  brass? 

The  black  trees  droop  and  nod, 

As  if  they  bowed  the  head 
Before  some  murdered  god, 

Borne  on  a  litter  dead. 
The  reeds  that  shivering  bend 

As  the  dark  stream  flows  by, 
Bend  lower  still  and  send 

Across  the  flats  a  cry. 
oomewhere,  far-off,  the  sea, 

Deep-muttering,  drowns  the  sand, 


112  A     CERTAIN     EVENING 

And,  like  eternity, 

Moans  round  the  frightened  land. 
Dumbly,  from  depths  unplumbed, 

Struggles  and  stirs  my  heart; 
Undreamed  of,  and  unsummed, 

Is  what  it  would  impart. 
The  world  is  one  vast  field 

Waiting  with  indrawn  breath 
For  what  my  heart  will  yield; 

But  it  yields  only  Death. 


RESIGNATION  113 


RESIGNATION 

STRUGGLE  no  more:   let  it  go- 
Cries  the  wind  to  the  water; 
And  the  water  answers  the  wind  — 
It  is  gone. 

Struggle  no  more:    let  it  melt  — 
Cries  the  dew  to  the  vapour; 
And  the  vapour  answers  the  dew  — 
It  has  melted. 

Struggle  no  more:    let  it  sink  — 
Cries  the  pond  to  the  willow; 
And  the  willow  answers  the  pond  — 
It  has  sunk. 

Struggle  no  more :   let  it  fall  — 
Cries  the  moss  to  the  ivy; 
And  the  ivy  answers  the  moss  — 
It  has  fallen. 

Struggle  no  more:    Let  it  die  — 
Cries  the  loved  to  the  lover; 
And  the  lover  answers  the  loved  — 
It  is  dead. 


114  THEMYSTERY 


THE  MYSTERY 

CAN  you  not  hear  the  sobbing  in  the  night, 
You  pools  of  Silence? 

Can  you  not  hear  the  wailing  on  the  wind, 
You  shores  of  Silence? 
The  stones  we  walk  over, 
The  roots  we  uncover, 
The  grass  by  the  way, 
And  the  flames  of  the  day, 
In  the  same  accents  dolorous 
Cry  to  the  mystery  over  us. 

Can  you  not  hear  the  voices  in  the  sea, 

You  isles  of  Silence? 
Can  you  not  hear  the  murmur  in  the  trees, 

You  glades  of  Silence? 

The  shells  that  we  break, 

The  fish  that  we  take. 

The  moss  that  we  tread, 

And  the  graves  of  our  dead, 

In  the  same  accents  dolorous 

Cry  to  the  mystery  over  us. 

Can  you  not  hear  the  moaning  in  the  reeds, 

You  banks  of  Silence? 
Can  you  not  hear  the  sighing  in  the  sand, 

You  stones  of  Silence? 

The  bubbles  that  sink, 

The  stars  that  wink, 

The  rocks  that  crumble, 

And  the  feet  that  stumble, 

In  the  same  accents  dolorous 

Cry  to  the  mystery  over  us. 


THEMYSTERY  115 

Can  you  not  hear  the  rustling  wings  of  love, 

You  caves  of  Silence? 
Can  you  not  hear  the  flapping  wings  of  hate, 

You  towers  of  Silence? 

The  souls  that  are  white 

With  the  moons  of  night, 

And  the  souls  that  are  red 

With  the  sun's  blood  shed, 

In  the  same  accents  dolorous 

Cry  to  the  mystery  over  us. 

Can  you  not  hear  the  ticking  clock  of  time, 

You  halls  of  Silence? 
Can  you  not  hear  life's  swift  alternate  rhyme, 

You  roofs  of  Silence? 

The  feet  of  desire, 

And  the  lips  of  fire, 

The  hand  that  clings, 

And  the  tongue  that  stings, 

In  the  same  accents  dolorous 

Cry  to  the  mystery  over  us. 
But  the  mystery  answers  not  a  word; 
And  passes,  as  though  it  had  not  heard. 


Il6  REQUIESCAT     IN     PACE 


REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE 

THE  end  with  outstretched  hands 
Provides  the  balm 
That  gives  the  slipping  sands 

Of  time  their  calm. 

The  dark  bewilders  and  the  light  entices. 
The  end  suffices. 

The  things  forlorn  we  glance  at  as  we  go; 

Dim  patches  of  bleached  grass, 
And  floating  wreckage  tossed  on  desolate  seas, 

And  all  the  piteous  faces  that  we  pass, 
And  all  the  flow 

Of  all  the  tears  those  piteous  faces  show, 
The  end  suffices  these. 

O  end  of  all  things  giving  all  things  peace 
And  bringing  them  release! 
It  is  enough  to  name  thee  and  be  dumb. 
That  thou  must  come, 

Unasked,  unspeeded, 
At  last  to  all,  in  answer  unto  all; 

No  more  is  needed. 

This  fungus-thing  unfurled, 

This  blunder,  this  contortion,  this  huge  blot, 

That  it  should  linger  not, 
But  into  cool  deep  wells  of  death  be  hurled, 

How  just,  how  blest! 
But  let  there  be  for  us  no  after-world, 

Lord  of  Eternal  Rest! 


THE     MUSIC     OF     THE     SPHERES        117 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES 

LET  the  sooth-sayers  hold  their  peace 
With  their  false  auguries! 
Let  us  have  the  truth's  release, 

And  bow  our  foreheads. 
Let  us  kiss  the  ground; 

While  over  us,  slowly, 
Without  pause,  without  sound  - 

Save  one,  save  only  one !  — 

The  planets  holy, 

And  the  sacred  sun, 

In  due  succession, 

Their  bright  procession 

Draw  out,  and  strew 

The  eyelids  of  the  night  with  healing  dew. 

Hush!     How  they  whisper,  thro'  the  expectant  air, 

To  mortal  ears, 

The  end  of  all  our  fears! 
In  full  enravishment 

We  listen  for  the  word; 

Which  to  have  heard 
Is  large  enfranchisement. 

Let  the  Priests  go  aside  and  be  dumb 

With  their  false  oracles! 
Let  the  worst  of  all  truth  come. 

It  can  only  slay  us! 

And  when  we  lie  dead 

With  the  earth  on  our  head, 

All  hell  may  howl  behind  us. 

It  can  never  find  us! 


Il8  KNOWLEDGE 


KNOWLEDGE 

THE  wild  swan  over  the  marshes  knows 
On  what  cold  reed-bed 
The  witch-girl  pressed  the  rook-boy's  lips 
Until  they  bled. 

The  wild  owl  over  the  mad-house  knows 

In  what  padded  place 
The  loveliest  form  that  ever  breathed 

Lies  on  her  face. 

The  wild  hawk  over  Golgotha  knows 

Whose  patient  heart 
Cursed  day,  night,  earth  and  heaven,  before  its  curse 

Rent  it  apart. 

The  wild  kite  over  the  world's  edge  knows 

To  what  piteous  end 
All  joy,  all  hope,  all  love,  all  wisdom,  all  desire, 

In  swift  procession  tend  - 
Yet  none  the  less  it  soars  and  flashes  free 
Across  the  glaciers  of  eternity! 


OVERTHEHILL  119 


OVER  THE  HILL 

OVER  the  hill  - 
Can  you  hear  the  sea?  — 
A  voice  I  know 

Is  calling  to  me. 

From  a  quiet  place,  all  railed  around, 
Her  voice  is  calling  out  of  the  ground. 
And  along  the  path  by  the  high  cliff's  edge 
Where  the  sea-gulls  flap  on  the  windy  ledge, 
And  across  the  hill,  by  the  straight  white  road, 
Where  the  wagon  creaks  beneath  its  load, 
And  down  the  hill  by  the  little  white  bridge, 
And  up  again  by  the  gorse-bush  ridge, 
On  unwearied  feet  I  must  seek  her  side 
Who  all  night  long  to  me  has  cried; 
On  unwearied  feet  I  must  find  the  place 
Where  she  lies  with  the  earth  upon  her  face. 
That  spot,  with  white-washed  posts  railed  round, 
Where  she  calls  to  me  out  of  the  heavy  ground, 
I  have  seen  it  in  a  thousand  dreams. 
Near  the  sea  it  always  seems; 
And  railed  with  white-washed  posts  it  gleams. 
But  when  I  cross  over  the  little  bridge 
And  follow  the  yellow  gorse-bush  ridge 
Instead  of  the  white- washed  posts  I  find 
An  old  stone-breaker  half-blind, 
Crouching  upon  a  heap  of  stones 
And  eating  a  meal  of  rabbit  bones. 
Yet  over  the  hill  - 

Can  you  hear  the  sea?  — 
A  voice  I  know 

Is  calling  to  me. 


120  OVERTHEHILL 


And  every  night  as  I  lie  in  my  bed 

The  same  strange  vision  comes  into  my  head 

And  I  cross  the  little  stony  bridge 

And  I  follow  the  yellow  gorse-bush  ridge 

And  the  white- washed  posts  by  the  road-side  gleam; 

Is  she  the  dreamer;  —  am  /  the  dream? 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


